


Plunge

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Cameos, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Does it count as inaccurate if it's not actually our world?, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Inaccurate Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, James Rhodes - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Mercreature Bucky Barnes, Minotaur Bruce Banner, Mutual Pining, Mythical Beings & Creatures, POV Multiple, Pepper Potts - Freeform, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sharing a Bed, Skinny Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Triton Bucky Barnes, Winged Steve Rogers, Wingfic, antagonists to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-27 14:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21393871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: Steve squawked as a hand wrapped loosely around his wrist. He braked, wings banking so hard he almost somersaulted over himself, and surged up and away from the ocean, spinning to find himself staring at—A triton was laughing up at him, sharp teeth gleaming in the sunlight. Steve had seen tritons before. He knew what lurked under the water. The power and violence wrapped in muscle and skin.The triton's grin turned knowing, like he could see what Steve was thinking. "Hey there, Feathers. You want to go for a swim?"
Relationships: Bruce Banner & James "Bucky" Barnes, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Maria Hill & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 141
Kudos: 1151





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> *hits Greek mythology with a hammer, magpies away with the shiny pieces* By which I mean this isn't even close to being a Greek mythology AU, I just nicked stuff and twisted it around into my world.

Bucky was running on pure instinct, luxuries like thought abandoned with chunks of flesh and he didn't know how much blood. His band hadn't let him go easy; tritons had no patience for cowards and a coward was any triton who swam from a fight.

He bared his teeth, saltwater washing away lingering traces of blood and skin. Not his. They'd made a mistake trying to kill him and they'd paid for it as he'd fought his way free. They'd given chase, but not for long. They had a job to do, the one he'd refused. The one that had driven him away.

They were mercenaries, just like him, because tritons were good for nothing else, but as he'd listened to what they'd been hired to do everything in him had rebelled_. _He'd fight soldiers, navies, other triton mercs, but he wouldn't slaughter innocents. Not for Icarians, not for anyone.

_Guess I'm not a mercenary anymore_.

He dove deeper as a ship passed overhead, the glow from his tail illuminating the night-dark sea, and came to a shocked stop as a massive, vaguely human shape sank past him, bubbles trailing as it tipped its head towards the distant surface. 

He didn't hesitate. He dived after it, barely managing to wrap his arms around its broad chest, and swam for the surface. It didn't fight, just hung loosely in his grasp, but as they burst out of the water into the open air, it drew in a deep, gasping breath.

_He _drew in a deep gasping breath.

Under the light of the moon, Bucky could see what he'd grabbed. He had horns, even if they'd been cut half off and capped, a long bull's head, neat, curved ears, and—he twitched his tail, fins curling—hooves.

He had hold of a minotaur.

He was bleeding all over a minotaur.

"Are you going to eat me?" The voice that rumbled out of him was deep enough Bucky thought it might shake mountains.

The question was fair. He was a triton. Tritons ate people, and they ate them alive and thrashing. "No. I'm going to take you to shore."

"Why?"

"Can you swim?"

"No."

"There's your answer."

The minotaur didn't say anything else, so Bucky started swimming, following the waves, holding tight, hoping his blood wouldn't attract anything. It shouldn't, even bleeding he wouldn't smell like prey, but he didn't want to fight something off and try and keep his...passenger?...above water.

His passenger was silent for the long but uneventful swim. The sun was rising and Bucky was exhausted by the time a rocky shore came into view. He made for the flattest spot and when they reached the shallows, he let go. The minotaur stood, water streaming off his pale brown fur and sodden canvas pants, which were lumpy with bulging pockets.

Bucky lay in the shallows, leaning on a rock. If the minotaur wanted to step on him with one of his massive hooves, he decided he didn't care. He just wanted to lay here and rest. With his torso out of the water, he'd stop bleeding eventually.

A hand on his shoulder made him surge up, tail coiled under him, fingers curling into glittering black claws, sharp teeth bared.

"You're bleeding."

Bucky eyed him warily.

"I can help with that." He fumbled with one of his pockets and pulled out a package wrapped in smooth, shiny material. He sat on a rock and unwrapped it on his lap. The contents looked dry. And worrying. Curved needles, shiny and sharp, and thread. "Some of those should be stitched."

"I'll be fine."

"Maybe. Maybe not." He rested his big hands on his knees. "You helped me. Let me help you."

He thought about it. He thought about letting a stranger touch him. Letting a stranger push needles through his skin. He almost wanted to laugh, because a stranger would be a lot less likely to hurt him than his own kind. These weren't the first wounds he'd gotten from other tritons.

But he'd left. He was never going back, _could_ never go back, even if he wanted to. _And he didn't, he didn't. _Word would be passed that he'd abandoned a fight. If they saw him, they'd kill him.

"Yes," he said against every instinct. "What do I have to do?"

"Can you come up here? Out of the water?"

He hand-walked up over the rocks and arranged himself at the minotaur's hooves. He didn't flinch when he felt hands on him. He didn't flinch at the pinch of the needle or the pull of the thread.

"Bruce," the minotaur said.

"What?"

"My name."

"Oh." Bucky let his mind settle on the rhythm of the stitching, because it was the first time a non-triton had told him their name. Told him, personally. People that hired the band of triton mercenaries he'd belonged to would sometimes give their names, more usually their rank or title, but no one had ever given theirs to _Bucky_. "Bucky. I'm Bucky."

* * *

The rocky shore wasn't suitable for either of them. When they left it made an unspoken and wary kind of sense to leave together.

Eventually they found a cove near the great forest and Bruce disappeared into it, to make a home among the trees—or so Bucky assumed. He could hand-walk up the beach; the deeps of the forest were beyond him. Bucky lived under the waves, but he returned regularly to the cove, never swimming too far away. Like two cats, they shared territory that butted up against each other, even if they could go weeks without speaking.

It took some doing, but Bucky managed to convince a ship that regularly passed nearby that he wasn't trying to lure them into becoming a meal, and traded ancient relics pulled from the bottom of the sea for things Bruce needed.

In the end, it turned around and bit him. The ship-folk became too interested in a triton who sought trade and not slaughter, too interested in what he might be able to bring them, and tried to catch him for themselves.

It was kill them or leave, and he wasn't willing to kill. He left. Bruce came with him.

They found another cove, concealed by rocky hills on both sides and home to a circle of stone Bruce said had once been an ancient lighthouse. It provided shelter and a place Bucky could store things safe from the weather and the world.

It was maybe closer to The City than either of them would have liked, but not so close they were concerned about coming to its attention. Once more, Bruce made his home in the forest, Bucky made his home in the cove, and any ancient relics he found, he left right where they were.


	2. Three Years Later

Steve perched on a rocky cliff that looked out over the ocean. His feet were bare, shoes looped by their laces around his neck, and he flexed his toes, curling them around the edge.

Wind swirled around him, carrying the distant sound of unseen waves crashing at the cliff's base.

The sun was golden and bright overhead, watchful in a perfect blue sky, and Steve pressed his fingertips to his heart. He'd learned to salute the sun before he'd learned to talk and he might have left everything else behind when he'd left Icaria, but he'd kept the gesture of respect.

It wasn't the fault of his ancestor—or the god who'd saved him—how his descendants had turned out.

Deliberately, Steve pushed away everything even vaguely resembling a bad memory. The day was glorious, he had all the time in the world before he had to deliver the message he was carrying and return to The City, and he wasn't going to waste it dwelling on the past.

Leaning down to roll up his pants, the silvery rune of The City on his wrist flashing in the light, he easily wriggled them up over his bony knees. Then he backed away from the cliff's edge, grinned, and bolted forward. A single wild leap sent him plummeting into nothing, the wind whistling in his ears as the ocean rushed to meet him.

At the last second, he snapped his wings out, grunting with the force of it, turning his fall into a race over the water's surface, so close he could reach down and touch, his fingers slicing through the waves.

Steve laughed, giddy with the joy of movement, with the cool water and the sun on his feathers and the sheer freedom of it. He closed his eyes, salt in his nose, ocean's spray on his face, fingers in the water, revelling in flying so precisely that, even on the downbeat, not a pinion brushed the waves.

If he'd been paying more attention—if his eyes had been _open_—he'd have noticed the shadow in the water.

Maybe.

It was a shadow perfectly designed _not_ to be noticed until it was too late. Until even noticing wouldn't save you. It slid up under Steve, easily keeping pace with him, slicing through the water like a blade, and reached…

Steve squawked as a hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, as fingers slid over his. He braked, wings banking so hard he almost somersaulted over himself. He surged up and away, putting distance between himself and whatever had tried to grab him, spinning to find himself staring at—

He wiped his eyes, wondering if salt and spray were making him see things that weren't there, but no.

A triton was laughing up at him, sharp teeth gleaming in the sunlight. He was submerged to his chin, but Steve had seen tritons before. The memory twisted and burned, but he knew what lurked under the water. The long, tail with its spiked fins. The thick black claws, waiting to pop out of human-seeming hands. The power and violence wrapped in muscle and skin.

The triton's grin twisted, turned knowing, like he could see what Steve was thinking. "Hey there, Feathers. You want to go for a swim?"

Steve lifted up a couple of feet, since he'd seen how far a triton could jump. "Not today, thanks. Why, you looking to trade? Want me to take you flying?" As if Steve could even lift the massive body he knew was hidden under the water.

"Sure, Feathers, you just come down here, get real close, and you can take me wherever you want."

Despite himself, Steve barked a laugh. This was not a conversation he'd ever imagined having with a triton—but then, he'd never imagined having one at all. They weren't known for chit-chat, casual or otherwise…or for being alone, which this one seemed to be. "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

The triton lifted himself higher out of the water, stretching, giving Steve a look at broad shoulders, thick arms and a wide chest, a torso that smoothed down into a deep grey tail. He was peppered with scars. His tail swept in lazy circles, breaking the surface, as he leaned lazily back in the water.

Steve frowned, drifting lower. There were…lights? Lights on his tail, visible between sweeps, spots that glowed softly, each flick of his tail making them flicker and dance…

The triton cleared his throat. Steve startled, accidentally meeting blue-grey eyes, and surged up, because he'd drifted way too close.

"Gotta be careful with those, Feathers," the triton said, tone weirdly soft. "They're there to lure prey. Can be hard to get away once they've got you."

Steve glared down at him. "I am not prey."

"Didn't say you were. They catch all kinds of things."

"And stop calling me Feathers."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Why do you have to call me anything?"

He didn't get an answer. What he got was a wicked smile, a flip so fast he could barely follow it as the triton dove under the water, and a face full of water from a flick of the triton's tail.

Steve wiped his face, wings beating the air as he stared at the spot where the triton had disappeared. He had no idea what a triton was doing here, all alone in the middle of nowhere, or why he'd decided to talk to Steve, but he knew he'd been lucky. He knew what a triton could do. He'd seen what a triton could do. That loose grasp around his wrist could just as easily have been a hard pull and teeth. Steve would have been dragged under before he'd known he had to fight.

But instead the triton had _laughed _at him.

It was… Steve shook his head as he twisted, wings cutting through the air as he turned towards his destination. Strange didn't even begin to cover it. 

* * *

As Bucky swam down through the water, leaving the confused Icarian far above, he was still amused. It wasn't the first time he'd seen an Icarian flying over this stretch of ocean, heading for the great forests and destined, he assumed, for the cities beyond, but he'd never seen an Icarian willingly get so close to the water.

Those long fingers, that delicate wrist marked with The City's silvery rune—which meant he knew, however strange, this Icarian didn't belong to Icaria—had dangled so temptingly as they cut a wake through the waves. He hadn't been able to resist. Plus, it had been educational. Bucky was the worst thing that lived in these waters, but there were other things in the world that'd hurt him. If Feathers was going to leave the safety of The City for the wider lands, he needed to know that.

Hopefully Feathers had learned a valuable lesson about paying attention. Bucky grinned. And the way he'd squawked and almost fallen out of the sky was a memory to treasure.

Bucky swam deeper and deeper, feeling the pressure build as got closer to the ocean's floor. It wasn't pain, didn't hurt, was more a pleasurable ache, like his body was acknowledging the water's weight and defying it at the same time.

If Bruce's histories were true, that tritons had been created by the son of a god, at least he'd gotten this right.

Sometimes Bucky wasn't sure he believed it. Not the gods part. Everyone knew they'd existed, just like everyone knew they'd taken off when they were needed most and left the lands to deal with the breaking on their own. No, what Bucky wasn't sure about was his kind being created by one of those gods' sons.

As he swam through tumbled ruins illuminated by the glow from his tail, ruins that stretched for miles beyond counting under the waves, ruins that had once been filled with people who'd probably expected their gods to save them, he figured it probably was true. Judging by Bruce's histories, the gods had been thoughtless at best and malicious at worse, their forays into _helpful _being incredibly rare and usually hurting as much as their attempts to harm. Making something like _him_, like tritons, built for violence from the inside out, fit a little too well. 

A school of massive silvery tuna swam past, and he grabbed the distraction, sliding in among them. They barely noticed, but then tuna weren't smart. He swam among them, a predator they didn't recognise, and slipped through the school until he was leading. They dutifully followed and he led them through a series of figure eights, the school passing through itself until it puffed apart in confusion.

An irritated tuna was a sight to see.

He laughed silently as the school marshalled itself and swam neatly away, vanishing into darkness as they left the range of his glow.

* * *

Two days later, Steve opened his eyes to stare blearily at his feathers. His wings were folded over his body and crossed over his face, but given they were completely white, some feathers almost translucent in places, the morning light just filtered through them, ignoring his attempts to block it out.

He wanted to blame his wings for the fact that he always woke with the sun—if he had Sam's deep russet red, he'd be able to keep the light _out_—but it happened even when he slept in a dark room, so he knew it was just him. And days he was on duty, it was a good thing. On those days, he was grateful for it. Days like today, however, when he wasn't on duty, when the last two days had been gruelling, gratitude was nowhere to be found.

They last two days shouldn't have been anything special, but like his encounter with the triton had upended everything he'd been expecting about that day his easy flight out to deliver a non-urgent message had turned into flying between half a dozen islands in chancy weather before he'd finally been able to return to The City. Commander Hill had taken one look at him and ordered him to take today off.

And here he was, awake with the sun.

With a sigh, Steve rolled to his feet and stretched, wings brushing the ceiling, and went to the kitchen to make tea. When it was done, he wandered out to stand on the platform that circled his aerie, absently pressing his fingers to his heart as glanced up at the sun.

The sun was still rising, light pouring over The City like syrup, slow and thick and golden. It oozed over the thick stone walls that surrounded The City like protective arms. It crawled over buildings and entrances to underground enclaves, carefully built so there was no danger of collapse. It illuminated the aqueducts and canals, some with houses and shops integrated into their structure.

The City welcomed everyone, whoever and whatever they were, and whatever they were there was a place for them.

Even an Icarian.

Steve sipped his tea and watched the fleet of boats bobbing on the waves, safely tied up at the docks that stretched into the ocean. It bounded three quarters of The City, set as it was on the end of a peninsula that offered hundreds of miles of rich farmland before it reached the great forest. A wide road ran under the aqueducts that rose over the farms—and the settlements, not part of The City, but close enough to find safety in The City's shadow.

As the light passed through The City, floating balls flared to incandescent life. Steve knew they were gathering power from the sun, knew there were similar things gathering power from the wind and the waves, that they were why no one needed wood for their stoves, but he didn't have a clue how they worked.

That didn't really bother him. Stark had created them and since Stark had once been the greatest alchemist and weapons maker in the lands, Steve figured there was no shame in not understanding how balls that looked like glass but weren't worked.

Thinking about it, Steve guessed Stark technically was still both of those things, but he'd given up making weapons. No one knew why. One day he'd been creating horrors like fire that burned under water and flying explosives that burst the ground when they landed, selling them to anyone who could pay and drowning in their admiration. The next, he and the other Founders were creating The City. It was a place where anyone who needed safety and refuge was welcome to seek it. A place where those whose homelands had been swallowed by the breaking, their people scattered across the lands, could finally find a home.

The one serious attempt at trying its walls had reminded the lands that Stark had once been a master of weapons. The defences weren't breached. No one tried again.

That had been fifty years ago, long before Steve was born, but The City's history was right there in the library for anyone to read. And he had. It did make him wonder, though, because none of the Founders—Stark, Prelate Potts, Commanders Rhodey, Fury, and Hill—looked close to old enough to have founded The City fifty years ago.

He didn't wonder too hard, though, because it didn't matter. They were good people—even if he hadn't enjoyed his interview with Stark. Stark had insisted on meeting him and he'd struck Steve as an arrogant ass, but he'd let him stay. Even with Erskine's assurance, he'd been surprised. Icarians were vicious, arrogant, turned on their own people in a heartbeat and turned on others even faster. He was lucky he'd survived, skinny and sickly as he'd been with his wings as pale as milk. If he hadn't been as fast as he was…

He cradled his mug in his hands, swirling the dregs of his tea. It didn't matter now. He'd made himself a traitor to his country and his people, but he'd done what was right. Erskine had sent him here, to The City. Stark had given him the silver rune of a City citizen, even if it had come with a, "What, you think you're the first Icarian to end up here?"

But it had also come with Sam, Sam who'd been _born_ here, an Icarian who'd never set wing in Icaria, and sometimes Steve loved Sam for that most of all. 

Newly minted citizen of The City, he hadn't been sure what he was going to _do_, and he'd been shocked when Commander Hill had grabbed him to be one of her couriers. In charge of The City's diplomatic and trade relations, she needed her couriers to be fast, reliable, trustworthy. She'd decided he was all three. Coming out of Icaria, it had meant more than he'd been able to say.

It wasn't always safe—pirates over water, bandits over land, he'd encountered _Icaria_ Icarians a few times, and even good-natured people would shoot an arrow at a passing Icarian; they wouldn't know Steve was from The City—but what he couldn't avoid he was usually fast enough to outfly or dodge. If he couldn't, he carried a sharp pair of knives that he was just as fast with.

Not as fast as a triton, though.

He couldn't help thinking back to their encounter. He couldn’t help wondering what the triton had wanted. Maybe he hadn't wanted anything?

Should he mention it to Sam? Maybe. But the triton had been nowhere near City waters. And, Steve frowned down at his mug, he hadn't done anything _wrong_. Granted, Steve had never _met_ a triton, never _talked_ to one, but he didn't think they usually _teased_. And that was what he'd been doing.

Apart from his sheer tritoness, there been nothing threatening about him, and that was maybe the strangest thing of all.

No. If he told Sam, Sam who reported directly to Commander Rhodes, who was basically Rhodes' second in command, Sam might feel like he had to investigate, even if he didn't want to. Plus, Sam would definitely take the opportunity to give Steve shit about playing in the water, and he did not need that.

At all.

But he might take another flight out there, see if the triton was still hanging around. See if he actually was alone. He drained his mug and didn't think too closely about why.


	3. Chapter 3

It was another week, his next day off in fact, before Steve had the time to fly out to the stretch of ocean where he'd seen the triton.

Now, flying slowly over the water, Steve realised exactly how much of a fool's errand he'd set himself. The sun glittered off the surface, turning it into a choppy mirror. Even if he was still here, unless he chose to show himself, Steve would never see him. He _wasn't_ going to try luring him out by dangling his fingers in the water. There was no guarantee he'd get lucky a second time.

Eventually, Steve settled on a rocky outcrop that jutted out of the sea, wings wrapped around himself, and contemplated the complete waste he'd made of his day.

A big dead fish landed with a splat at his feet, its wide, white eye staring up at him.

He tensed, ready to launch himself into the air, but didn't turn, not even when a voice said, "You need to eat more. You're skinny as an eel."

Steve contemplated the many possible responses. He finally went with, "Not really a fan of raw. Got some firelighters and sticks you want to throw, too?"

"Hey, be happy I killed it. I know you land types don't like your food wriggling."

Now he turned. The triton had his elbows propped on a rock, long dark hair plastered to his skin, his gleaming eyes fixed on Steve.

"Shame, really. Wriggling gives it," he snapped his sharp teeth together, "bite."

Steve grimaced and the triton laughed at him, pushing off the rocks to swim in a lazy circle around them.

Steve watched him carefully. After two circuits, when it seemed clear the triton wasn't going to say anything else, he said, "Still here, huh?"

The triton stopped and swam closer, leaning on the rocks just in front of Steve. Steve could see his tail sweeping the water behind him and he fought the urge to watch the glow. "Why? Come to tell me to move on?" He stretched, muscles rippling, scars pale in the sunlight. "Is that why you came back? To try and make me leave?"

The grin was still in place, but his eyes had gone dark, pupils wide and black, barely a halo of colour visible. Steve's eyes flicked to the triton's hands, heartbeat kicking up. No claws, not yet, just blunt ended fingers, but his wings still flared in response. He knew the triton could reach him here.

He stayed where he was, though, and his voice was calm as he said, "No," and, "That's not why I'm here."

"You sure about that?"

"You caught me," Steve said, deliberately dry. "I _did_ fly all the way out here, on my own, to drive you away but I was so overcome by your gift of a dead fish I've changed my mind."

The triton ducked under the water, his tail arcing up and Steve ducked away from the splash. When he straightened, the triton's pupils had contracted, leaving them a bright blue-grey, and a smile was lurking in the curve of his mouth. 

"So you can be _bribed_."

"Oh yeah. Not much I wouldn't do for a dead fish."

"What about two dead fish?"

Steve whistled, his wings settling against his back. "_Two_ dead fish. I don't know. That's getting into expensive territory."

"You're telling me you only indulge in _petty_ bribery."

"I'm just saying I'm not sure what I can offer that's worth _two_ dead fish."

The triton slowly looked him up and down, gaze lingering, before settling on his face. "I don't know, Feathers." The triton smirked. "I might have a few ideas."

Steve felt himself blush and hastily stood, spreading his wings wide.

"Aww, you're leaving?"

"I'm leaving."

"Don't forget your fish." Steve wrinkled his nose. "Hey, it's a good fish. Even if you ruin it by cooking it, it'd be a shame to waste it."

Steve looked from the triton to the fish and back again, then sighed and scooped it up by the tail before launching himself into the air.

As he winged over the water in the direction of The City, the triton swam below him, matching his speed with ease, and called, "And by the way, Feathers, I was talking about the fact that you can fly. Not whatever you were thinking that turned you pink!"

Steve seriously considered dropping the dead fish on the triton's head, but opted for dignified silence as the triton's laughter followed him. 

* * *

It was just Steve's luck that he came across the walls and almost flew right into Sam. Luck, and the fact that his mind was still half with the triton. There was a whoosh and russet red wings filled his vision as Sam spun in the air and twisted, one wing slipping around to smack him in the back of the head.

"Hey!" Steve rubbed the spot.

"Maybe if you start watching where you're going, you won't need to get smacked with a pinion." Sam was grinning, though, his wings beating the air easily, and Steve grinned back.

"What are you doing out here? I thought you'd still be with Commander Rhodes."

"He sent me out to get some air. We've been cooped up for a couple of days. Honestly, I'm glad for the break."

"Is something up?" Steve asked.

Sam waved a hand, a gesture that could have meant _nothing_ and could have meant _nothing I can talk about_. Steve didn't push.

He was kind of wishing he had when Sam glanced down and said, "Nice fish."

Steve didn't rise to the bait. "Thanks."

"Can I ask—"

"Nope," he said quickly, not even letting Sam finish the question. 

He should have known it wouldn't work. "You don’t have a fishing pole. I know you weren't out with the fleets. So where did you get a fish?"

"Found it." Technically that was true. He'd found it at his feet. He didn't need to mention it had been thrown there by a triton. His reasons for not mentioning him to Sam hadn't changed. If anything, they'd strengthened. He'd _expected_ Steve to drive him away.

Sam broke into a huge grin. "You _found_ a fish."

"I found a fish."

"Steve, did you steal that fish?"

"What? No, I didn't steal it. Why would you ask that?" Steve fluffed his wings out, offended, because he didn't _steal_.

"Mostly 'cause I knew you'd react like that."

"I can smack you with this fish, you know." He raised it threateningly, or what would have been threateningly if it hadn't flopped over his hand, waggling obscenely.

They both stared at it. Sam, holding back choked laughter, said, "Having a little trouble getting your fish up?"

"I hate you," Steve said, glaring at his limp fish, and he didn't know if he was talking to the fish, Sam, or the triton.

Peals of laughter burst out of Sam, his wings were shaking so hard he dropped several feet before he caught himself, and when he winged his way back level with Steve, he was wiping tears out of his eyes. "No, you don't."

Steve gave him a flat look, but he could feel the corner of his mouth twitching.

"See? You don't. And since I know what to do with a dead fish, you're going to invite me over to dinner."

Sam was waiting expectantly, so Steve leaned in and whispered, "Sam, do you want to come over and share my fish?" waggling it so it flopped around.

Sam gave him a look of disgust. "Only if you stop doing that with it."

With a grin, Steve waggled it some more and flew closer to Sam, who flipped in mid-air and took off towards the centre of The City, Steve and the fish in close pursuit.

* * *

When Bucky returned from following Feathers, feeling oddly warm and very surprised he hadn't had to dodge a hurled fish, there was a hulking shadow on the shore of his cove. He slowed long enough to be sure he knew who it was before speeding up again. The chances of someone stumbling over the cove were slim, but it was always better to be sure.

He surged forward, driving himself up onto the sand with his tail, then hand-walked forward until he was looking up. "Bruce. Everything okay?"

"Bucky." His name rumbled out of the massive chest. "Nothing's wrong." Bruce scratched behind one ear. "I thought you might like a fire."

Bucky considered him carefully. They didn't see each other often, every couple of weeks Bruce would wander down to the cove, but something in the way Bruce was standing, the way his tail was swishing back and forth—this didn't seem like a casual visit.

"A fire would be good. Thanks."

It didn't take long for Bruce to get one going. It helped that he kept stores of firewood at Bucky's cove, replenished every visit, kept firelighters in Bucky's stone-walled shelter.

As they sat in comfortable silence, Bucky watched the fire. Eventually, he'd have to dip his tail in the water to stop the skin drying out, but he had time.

Bruce shifted, massive hooves digging in the sand, flickering shadows dappling his pale brown fur, as he turned a piece of driftwood around and around in his huge, graceful hands. Bucky was grateful for those hands. They'd stitched him up more than a few times.

"What did you get up to today?" Bruce asked.

The question set Bucky back. "Swam around," he said, evasively. "Caught some fish." According to the histories, histories he'd learned from Bruce himself, Minoan and Icarian history intersected, and maybe not in a way Bruce would want to be reminded of. It was history, and Bruce was a scholar, he could separate the stories of the past from the reality of now, but Bucky didn't want to test it. Not when Bruce was already unsettled. 

"Sounds peaceful."

"It was."

"The offer's there if you ever want to see for yourself," he said, only half serious. Bruce still couldn't swim. Bucky doubted any minotaur could, given their size, their hooves, but if he didn't have to worry about breathing, Bucky could pull him along easily enough.

It was incredible how expressive Bruce's long face could be. His expression was dry, a little sardonic, there in the flare of nostrils, the flick of his ears. "If I feel like letting you bite me."

"There is that," he conceded.

He snorted, clearly amused. "No thanks."

Bucky didn't blame him. A triton's bite wasn't a gift. It was for keeping prey alive so they could eat it wriggling later. That was hard to do if it drowned before you got to it.

Bucky preferred his food dead, but it didn't change the truth of what he was.

Bruce tossed the wood in his hand on the fire and the sparks flared high, the flames reflecting in Bruce's dark eyes, off the metal caps on his horns. He stretched, shaking himself, and let out a long sigh.

Bucky eyed him. "And are you going to tell me what's going on with you? Or are we gonna sit here and ignore the sighing?"

"Well," Bruce said, gazing up into the sky, "if I've calculated it right." Bucky knew he would have. Bruce didn't make mistakes like that. "Today's the day I would have become a Master."

Bucky had no idea what to say.

"It takes ten years to become a Master scholar of the Musaeum. Seven years as an apprentice after I got off the boat at Alexandria. Then three years ago I changed and they exiled me." He looked at Bucky expectantly.

"Even I can do that math."

Bruce gave him a quelling look. "You can do a lot more than that."

He waved a hand at him. "This isn't about me."

Bruce flicked his ears. "Ten years ago the Masters opened the doors and invited me in." He looked down at his hands. "Of course, I was a lot smaller then. A lot more _human_. They gave me access to so much knowledge I couldn't learn it all if I lived five lifetimes. Knowledge that exists nowhere else, that wasn't lost in the breaking only because it was saved at Alexandria. It didn't matter that Minoa was gone, that its people, my people, didn't exist anymore. It didn't matter what I was. All that mattered was me. What I could do. They were so _impressed_ by how smart I was, by how fast I learned."

His wry laugh hurt Bucky's heart.

"For someone so smart, I was stupid. I knew this could happen." He waved at himself. "I hoped it wouldn't, but I knew it could. But I thought if it happened it wouldn't matter. They'd invited _me_, they cared about _me_, about what I could do, and I'd still be me even if I changed. Same mind, same person. I was wrong. They banished me so fast I was lucky I found a ship with a crew willing to carry me away."

And push him into the ocean…unless he'd jumped, but that was something Bucky had always been careful not to ask.

Groping after words, Bucky said, "I'm sorry." Then he scowled. "But fuck them. You _are_ a scholar; I don't care what they say. You know the histories, you know math and the stars and alchemy and things I don't even know the _names_ for. If today was the day you were supposed to become a Master, then congratulations. As far as I'm concerned, you're a Master."

Slowly, gradually, Bruce smiled. "Should we hold a ceremony?"

"I could sing a song?"

"I've heard you sing." Bruce gave an exaggerated shudder. "Exile would be kinder."

Bucky flicked sand at him with his tail and Bruce rumbled a laugh. "Hey, Bruce?"

"Yes, Bucky?"

"Can I hear one of the histories?"

Bruce was easy to read if you knew how, and Bucky saw a pleased glimmer light his eyes. "I get to pick?"

"You're the Master scholar. What would I know from histories?"

Bruce relaxed back, leaning on his hands to gaze up into the sky. "How about the story of Asterion?"

He knew that one. It was the one that ran right smack into Icarian history. "Why that one?"

"Saw Icarians flying over the forest a couple of weeks ago. They brought it to mind. Why?"

"No reason." It wasn't that he felt compelled to hide that he'd been talking to an Icarian, he doubted Bruce would care, he just didn't want to do anything to make him feel bad. "Tell me about Asterion."

Bruce cleared his throat and Bucky settled in. He didn't know if it was something he'd learned at the Musaeum, or if it was a natural talent, but he was as good as a bard.

"Long ago, before the lands were broken and Minos sank under the sea, Asterion was a Prince of Minos. There'd always been Minoan bloodlines that were touched by the gods," Bruce grimaced slightly, but it passed, "whose children, when they reached adulthood, would change. They'd grow tall and strong, taking on the shape of the bull. But Asterion was unique, so favoured by the gods that he was blessed from birth with the bull's head, the hooves, the tail.

"Minoans who bore the mark of the god's favour had always been kept secret from outsiders, so there were none who knew that Asterion was a true Minoan, the most blessed of all, to be marked so early by the gods. His birth should have been celebrated. Instead it was a time of vicious lies.

"The enemies of Minos claimed that the Queen had lain with a bull, that Daedalus—given refuge on Minos from those same enemies—had enabled the abomination. That Asterion, truest Prince of Minos, was the result. As Asterion grew, the lies grew. Minoans who'd been blessed by the gods and sent away to live in secret safety were painted as having been sacrificed to Asterion's hunger.

"Afraid of what the future might bring, the King asked Daedalus to build a maze, cunning and intricate, to protect the god-touched. As war threatened, as Daedalus was imprisoned because he'd learned the secret of the god-touched, Asterion knew there was only one way to protect his people. He became the monster. He locked himself inside the maze and allowed himself to be hunted like an animal to save his people and preserve their secret."

Bruce's eyes blazed.

"_That's_ the history that's preserved at Alexandria." His voice shook with anger. "People tell campfire tales about bloodthirsty monsters that need to be killed but the Masters _know_ the truth. They know. And they still threw me out. I did everything I could to show them I wasn't a threat, that I wasn't a danger. I showed them the histories, their own records, but they _didn't care_."

It came out as a near bellow and Bucky held very still. He wasn't afraid of Bruce, but he was afraid _for_ him. He didn't speak, just waited, still and quiet, and Bruce slowly calmed.

He breathed deep, huge hands curling into the sand. "They didn't care," he repeated, softer.

"They didn't care," Bucky said, just as softly. "They had the truth in front of them and they ignored it, they ignored _you_, and they lost you because they were afraid. They were stupid and afraid, and it wasn't fair."

Bruce's sigh sounded like it had been dredged up from the depths of his soul. "At least we can be two bloodthirsty monsters together."

"Except I actually _am_ a bloodthirsty monster. You're just a scholar who got big and hairy and stopped needing to buy shoes."

Bruce snorted. "You're about as bloodthirsty a monster as I am."

"Maybe," Bucky conceded. "But you definitely don't need shoes."

This time his snort was mostly laughter. "Neither do you."

Bucky pulled himself a little closer, took a deep breath, and said, "You could go to The City. What you've learned, what you know. You could use it there."

"No." He paused, then said, slow and a little sad, "I thought I had a home once, people who valued me, and then I found out they didn't. Maybe The City is what the stories say, maybe it's not, but I've seen the truth that can stand behind those kinds of lies." Bruce stood, shook himself to shed sand. "Once was enough. I'm not going to believe in things I don't know are real."

Bucky scooped up a handful of sand and offered it to Bruce. "Here."

"Why are you giving me sand?"

"Take it, will you?"

He held out his hand and Bucky poured it into his palm.

"Gritty, right?"

"It's sand."

"It's _real_."

Bruce stared down at his handful of sand for a long time, then his lips curled in a smile. "Guess I have to believe in it, then."

"Guess so." Bucky smiled back at him as he pushed away, moving towards the water.

"Sometimes you're very strange," Bruce called as Bucky slipped into the ocean. "But thanks."


	4. Chapter 4

Steve was yawning around his hand as he perched on the edge of the canal, smiling at Wanda as she handed him a bulging sack of honey pastries. He had his wings tucked in tight since the eatery that hugged the side of the canal was busy, water-folk and land-folk all pressed together, some getting food and drinks to go, some eating in.

Not surprising; there were a lot of options for buying food in The City's many districts, but no better place to buy sweet pastries. 

"Thanks, Wanda." She flicked her fingers at him, careful not to splash him, and her pearlescent red scales glittered in the morning light.

Steve found himself studying Wanda as she swam to the side of the canal to take an order from a harpy. She was a being of the water, a naiad, tiny scales covering most of her body, but she couldn't be more different from his triton—

His thoughts screeched to a halt and he almost dropped the sack in the water. No. No, no, no. The triton wasn't _his_ triton. He was not claiming responsibility for anything that chucked a dead fish at him and he sure wasn't claiming responsibility for a triton, no matter how un-triton like he was proving to be.

"You okay, Steve?" Wanda was staring at him. So was her brother, Pietro, who was just as slender as his sister, only his scales were a pale silvery-grey. 

"Fine, yeah. Just realised I forgot to some do something for Commander Hill." Oh great, now he was _lying_ to people.

Wanda winced and Pietro shook his finger. "Bad move, Steve. That's a bad move."

"Tell me about it." He held up the sack. "I'd better get going."

"I don't think you can bribe her," Wanda called after him as he flew up into the sky, followed by Pietro's laugh. 

Wanda was right. Trying to bribe Commander Hill would be a pointless exercise. Not a fruitless one, but the fruit it would bear would be poison. She'd take his head off. Fortunately he _hadn't_ forgotten to do anything for her. He actually had the morning off, which was good, since it was going take him the entire morning to fly all the way out to the triton's stretch of ocean _and_ make it back in time for this afternoon's meeting with her.

He was probably wasting his time, Steve thought as he glided over the water, The City now far behind him. He probably wouldn’t even be here... Oh. No. There he was.

_Oh no, there he is. _

The triton was floating on his back, arms outstretched, hair like a cloud, tail drifting back and forth, fin-spots softly glowing. He waved lazily when he spotted Steve.

"Feathers," he called.

Something in Steve rebelled. "Steve," he called back.

"That's not my name."

"No, it's _my_ name. Steve. Not _Feathers_."

The triton went still, then he dropped under the waves and disappeared.

Steve spiralled slowly lower, but he didn't resurface. _I guess that's that_, he thought, ignoring the stab of disappointment.

"Why would you tell me your name?"

He whipped around, wings slicing through the air. The triton was mostly submerged, only his head sticking out of the water near the rocky outcropping.

"Sorry?"

"You should be. Are you stupid?"

"No, I'm not." He flew closer, then slowly settled on the rocks. There was something in the way the triton was looking at him that made him cautious.

"Could have fooled me. First you go dragging your hands in the water with your eyes closed and then you tell me your name?"

"First didn't do any harm. Not sure what you're going to do with the second." Steve held up his hand before he could say anything. "Here's a third to pile on." He stretched out his hand and set the sack down on a rock. "I brought you something."

He stared at the sack suspiciously, then transferred the look to Steve.

"Open it, will you? It's not going to hurt you."

"And I'll just take your word for that, will I?"

With a sigh, Steve leaned down, flaring his wings for balance, opened the sack, and showed him what was inside. "Honey pastries. You eat them." He couldn't resist adding, "They don't wriggle, but I bet you'll like them anyway."

Suspicious had turned into flat as the triton stared at Steve.

"What?"

"No. That's my question." But he swam closer and took a deep sniff. "Did you poison them? What are they going to do to me?"

Steve opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, took a deep breath, and said, "What's the point of asking questions like that? I'll answer the same whether I poisoned them or not."

Wordlessly, he reached into the bag, plucked up a pastry with one dripping hand, and held it out to Steve.

Trying very hard not to smile, since he had a feeling if the triton thought he was laughing at him he'd be gone, he accepted it. Graciously. With a polite, "Thank you," and ate the whole thing.

They stared at each other as the minutes ticked past, and when Steve didn't pass out or start frothing at the mouth or whatever the triton had been imagining, he said, "Satisfied?"

A smirk similar to the one that'd had him blushing last time passed across the triton's face, but he didn't say anything. He tilted his head, looked Steve up and down, then took a pastry and slowly bit into it, sharp teeth on full display.

Then his eyes closed. His fluttering eyelashes, his indrawn breath—Steve had to glance away. When he looked back, the triton's face was blank. His, "They're good," was grudging.

"Even though they're not wriggling," he couldn't help teasing.

His eyes narrowed, but he proceeded to eat the rest. Slowly, savouring each one. Steve made himself comfortable, chin resting on his hand, feeling weirdly happy just to watch him enjoy them. _He_ couldn’t manage more than one and a half, maybe two if he was starving, but the triton was about four times his size, if you counted his tail. Steve wasn't surprised he could eat a lot.

When he was done, he let out a surprisingly content sigh and licked the honey off his fingers. More than anything, it reminded Steve of a kid with a treat, or maybe a dog, it was so unselfconscious.

_It's cute, is what it is_. Yes, even with the sharp teeth.

Again, he didn't smile. Right up until the triton said, "Steve." Then he had to.

"That's me."

"Not Feathers."

"I have some," he pulled his wings around so they were curled around his body, "but no, that's not my name."

"Are you expecting mine?"

He'd sunk down low in the water, up to his chin, and Steve thought there was something…curious? Yeah, that was definitely curiosity in those pale grey eyes.

"Expecting? No."

"But you want to know."

"Only if you want to tell me." He fiddled with his pinions, smoothing them out. "Or I could come up with something instead."

"Go on, then." It was a challenge, delivered through razor sharp teeth.

_Teeth_. _No, definitely not. Fins? _Steve caught a glimpse of his tail below the water, wreathed in light. _Glow. _He put his chin back in his hand as he studied the little he could see of the triton, then he grinned.

_Perfect. _

"Honey," he said with a laugh, and launched himself into the air. The splash just missed him. "No, that's it. You're Honey."

The triton lifted himself out of the water, powerful, scarred body on display, and curled his fingers into gleaming black claws. "Do I look like a Honey to you?"

Steve swooped low over him, frowning, pretending to give the matter serious thought, before he laughed and spiralled up into the sky. "You sure do," he called back, catching a glimpse of Honey's disgruntled face before he dove under the waves.

* * *

Hours later, a gentle touch on the shoulder sent Steve bolting upright, eyes wide, staring at…

Sam.

He groaned and slumped down. "Sorry."

"Hey, no. Should have made some noise." Sam settled next him on the bench, rearranging his wings so they rested against Steve's.

"And I shouldn't have been dozing in Founders Tower in the first place."

"It's a weird choice for a nap." Sam was studying him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. I was supposed to have a meeting with Commander Hill half an hour ago but," he waved at the bright, high-ceilinged room, with its wood-panelled walls and its pale wood floors, which had benches, chairs, a large window that overlooked The City, and several closed doors, but a complete absence of Commander Hill, "I'm still here."

"She's in with Rhodey and Commander Fury, as far as I know."

Steve grinned and nudged Sam with a wing. "_Rhodey_, huh."

"Shut up," Sam muttered, but he was smiling. "No point us being formal when we spend so much time together."

"Should we worry that the three people in charge of protecting The City are in a meeting that's running late?"

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," Sam said airily, stretching his legs out in front of him.

He was the picture of casual unconcern. Steve poked him in the arm. "You know what's going on, don't you?"

"I might."

"Can you tell me?"

Sam hummed.

"It's fine if you can't."

"I've got the discretion. Rhodey trusts me with it."

There was an unspoken _but_ lingering in Sam's silence, so Steve spoke it. "But?"

Sam grinned. "But it's so much fun to watch you sweat."

Steve whacked him with a wing.

All it did was make him laugh and say, "What do you think your chances are of me telling you now?"

Before Steve could answer, the door in the far wall opened and Commander Hill walked through. Commander Fury followed her, and Natasha—who was to Fury what Sam was to Commander Rhodes—followed him, offering Steve a shiver of an apologetic smile. He smiled back, ended up giving it mostly to her back as she followed Fury out through another door.

"Steve," Hill said, "sorry you had to wait. Samuel, Rhodey wants to see you."

"Commander Hill," Steve said at the same time Sam said, "Ma'am."

They were both treated to a brief look of exasperation. "I've told you both Maria is fine."

They exchanged a look. "We know," Steve said as Sam excused himself.

She snorted softly and beckoned him to follow her into her office, gesturing at him to sit.

He settled on the backless chair she kept for him. Her office was as bright as the room outside had been, kept that way by glass orbs near the ceiling filled with a near-colourless light. There were piles of paper, books, parchment, rolled scrolls, pens, ink, wax, seals, and spare messenger tubes corralled on one side of her office by floor to ceiling shelves. The other side held more of the same, but the papers were interspersed with a variety of weapons.

Steve had never seen her use them, but he'd heard stories from Sam, from when Hill had made use of the guards' training grounds, and he'd never seen her unarmed. Even in the Tower, there was a long knife hanging from her belt.

She settled on her side of the desk. "Did Sam explain what's going on?"

"No." He tried not to sound disgruntled. "Only that something was."

Amusement flickered in her eyes. "Don't worry, your curiosity is going to be well and truly satisfied." There was a momentary pause. "You might regret that."

"Is it too late to change my mind about this meeting?"

"Oh Steve." It was _almost _sympathetic. "It was always too late." Her grin had teeth.

He dropped his head in defeat. "What do you need me to do?"

"You're aware of the agreements we have in place to help get people here."

"Of course." He hadn't been when he'd made his way here. Erskine had said go and he'd flown until he was too exhausted to move, resting anywhere he'd thought he might be safe, flying when he could move his wings again. But there were better ways, deals The City had made with other cities, with some of the ship-clans, the traders, the nomads, to help people trying to get here.

"We've got some people who've never been interested before making noises about wanting to make the same sort of deals."

He couldn't help being cynical. "Do they want to help people get here or do they just want a chance at some of Stark's inventions?" Stark didn't make weapons anymore, but he made other things that people wanted. Things like the orbs of light. Things like woodless stoves.

Things like The City's defences, but those weren't available…except in an up close and personal way to anyone who tried to hurt The City.

"Probably the latter, but as long as they stick to the agreement, I don't care."

"Good point. You want me carrying the messages?"

"This time I want something a little more than that. Everyone we'll be dealing with is either moving or just far enough away to be inconvenient."

There was something in her voice that warned him to pay attention; not that he wasn't, but it made him sit up straighter, wings rising, feathers taut. "What do you need me to do?"

"I'm going to deputise you."

"Excuse me?" he blurted out. "You're going to what?"

"Deputise you. I want you to make the deals."

His wings rustled, but he had no idea what to say.

"Steve," she said patiently. "You've been with me for three years. You've been working closely with me for two of them. You know how I work. I'll give you hard limits, but this will go much faster if you don't have to fly back and forth carrying every offer and counter offer and counter counter offer."

It was… He turned it around, studying the idea, trying to work out how he felt. Exhilarated, he decided, like the moment of free fall before his snapped out his wings. "You really want me to do this?"

"We really do. And Steve," she added, "you know what it's like to try and get here alone. You know what matters."

What else could he say? "Where do I start?"

* * *

Bucky hadn't seen Steve in a few weeks—it wasn't a big deal, not having seen him for that long, and it wasn't that he _missed_ him, it was just that he didn't think three weeks was enough to distort his memory.

He remembered Steve being lively—eyes bright, wings wide, twisty enough to dodge a splash—not something that looked like it'd been dropped into a typhoon and spat out the other end.

He was drooping as he flew over the water. Bucky was swimming right under him and he hadn't even noticed, and he was low enough Bucky could have leapt right over him.

Which was worrying, since Bucky had been swimming underneath him for about ten minutes now. Hadn't Steve learned his lesson about paying attention if he was going to get close to the water? If Bucky had been the wrong sort of triton—for example, any triton but Bucky—he could've dragged him under and eaten him by now.

He put on a burst of speed, got in front of him, put two fingers in his mouth, and let out a sharp whistle.

Steve just about fell out of the sky.

"Were you _asleep_?" Bucky asked incredulously.

"No." It came out defensive, and Bucky circled him like a shark circling its prey. He didn't even fly higher. Idiot.

"You sure about that?"

Steve just sighed. And drooped. And dipped lower.

Bucky stared at him then rubbed his forehead. Idiot Icarians were not his problem. Not even idiot Icarians who brought him pastries and told him their names and didn't try and drive him away and…

His fingers closed around Steve's ankle and he was hauling him towards a close-by little island before he knew what he was doing.

"Hey!" Steve struggled, wings beating the air, but he didn't try and kick Bucky in the head, which Bucky appreciated, and he wasn't going to break Bucky's grip if he wasn't willing to resort to actual violence, so he was towed along in Bucky's wake.

"Land," he said when they reached it. "Take a break. You're going to fall out of the sky and drown." He let go of Steve's ankle.

Steve, with a wary look, said, "I can't."

"You can. You're just being an idiot."

"I can't. This is important." He wrapped his fingers around the chest strap that held the message tube between his wings. "I can't let anything happen to it."

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out why he'd made this his problem. "What exactly do you think is going to get past me?" he asked and bared his teeth.

Steve stared at him, wonder and shock and disbelief all mingling into something goggle-eyed that woke a dull ache in the vicinity of Bucky's gut.

"You won't even tell me your _name_. You expect me to believe you'd, what, _guard_ me?" The words were edged with disbelief.

"Bucky."

Steve blinked.

"Bucky. That's my name. Now will you please land and rest for five minutes before you fall out of the sky?"

"You're serious."

He nodded tightly.

Steve clumsily backwinged to a landing, never taking his eyes off Bucky, and there was only wonder left. He settled, wings sweeping behind him, and he had to know he was well within Bucky's reach.

Didn't he?

"Bucky," Steve said, and it was soft.

"Yeah."

"It's a good name."

Bucky snorted. "Rest, will you?"

"Just for a minute." Steve pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, put his head on his knees, and wrapped his wings around himself. Minutes later, Bucky heard his breathing change, turn slow and soft.

He was asleep.

Now it was Bucky's turn to stare at him in wonder and shock and disbelief. What sort of…sort of… _idiot_ fell asleep within reach of a triton just because that triton said it was safe? And Bucky hadn't even said _that_. He'd just said he'd guard him. _Implied_ he'd guard him. He'd never said Steve would be safe from _him_.

Bucky stared at Steve as he slept, wrapped in his cocoon of pale wings, and didn't quite dare believe it. Steve hadn't believed he'd _guard_ him, that he'd protect him from other dangers…but he hadn't acted like Bucky was a danger he needed to be guarded from. He hadn't fought when Bucky had grabbed his ankle—and Steve carried knives; if he'd wanted to, he could have. 

Steve wasn't afraid of him. Steve was wary, was cautious, but…he didn't expect Bucky to hurt him.

Bucky's heart was beating too fast. He was a triton, everyone knew what tritons were, but Steve either didn't care or… Bucky dug sudden claws into the sand. Or he saw _Bucky_, never mind he hadn't known his name until five minutes ago. Steve saw him under the triton skin.

His heart hurt.

He settled his chin on his folded arms and watched the wind ruffle Steve's feathers, tail sweeping slowly back and forth to keep him in place. Steve's wings moved with his breathing, a gentle in and out, and Bucky wondered if he was warm in there. If he felt safe.

The sun moved overhead, Steve's shadow shifting with its passage, and reluctantly Bucky called his name. Steve had said he could only rest for a minute. It'd been more than that, maybe an hour, and Bucky knew he had to wake him.

"Steve," he said again, and Steve shifted, but didn't wake. A splash of water would do the trick handily, but he didn't want to. The only part of Steve he could reach without disturbing his wings was his ankle, so he very gently gave it a squeeze.

Steve's wings snapped out and his head shot up and he stared at Bucky, wide-eyed. Bucky froze, hand still wrapped around Steve's ankle, and they stared at each other until Steve slumped and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I fell asleep."

"You fell asleep," Bucky agreed, slowly pulling his hand away. He froze again when Steve reached out and caught it, unsure what he was going to do, but Steve just squeezed once and let go.

"Thanks."

He didn't reply, just sank down into the water up to his shoulders and watched as Steve stood, stretching his wings as he covered a yawn. He resettled the strap across his chest, then looked down at Bucky. "Bucky." The corner of his mouth ticked up. "Sure you wouldn't prefer Honey?"

Bucky aimed a tailful of water at him and Steve easily dodged it. "I'd prefer if you didn't drown yourself trying to fly in your sleep. I don't need a bunch of feathers clogging up the water."

"I'll remember you said that," Steve said, flashing him a quick grin, then he crouched down. "Seriously, Bucky. Thanks."

Bucky scowled at him. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

It briefly looked like Steve would say something else, then he smiled ruefully and leapt into the sky, wings beating the air.

When he was gone from sight, Bucky dived down deep, swimming through the ruins, and didn't think about the feel of Steve's hand on his.

Seaweed was helpful, there. It was hard to hang onto the feel of warm fingers when he was dragging hunks of the stuff up from the ocean floor. It wasn't slimy, but it felt like it should be, and the feel of their strength, of the way they'd curled around his, faded as he gathered an armful of the stuff.

It wasn't for him; it was for Bruce. He ate the stuff. Bucky had tried it. Once. Once had been enough. But Bruce liked it and it was easy enough to gather.

He rolled it into a rough ball, wrapping it around and around itself like stretchy yarn, and swam for the cove.

It took time to lay it out over the driftwood logs to dry and the sun had set by the time he was done. He curled his tail in a tidy curve and leaned back on his hands, watching the strange twisting shadows the gently waving seaweed cast in the glow of his tail, and tried not to think about Steve.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve bowed his head and dug in, wings beating hard. He was flying half into a headwind, not ideal in the least, but he had the final agreement Commander Hill had deputised him to get. Compared to this one, the others had been easy. The Lycians, ship-nomads whose routes took them to almost every port imaginable, had bargained hard. Steve knew they didn't care about The City or helping anyone reach it, but they wanted the conveniences a deal could offer. It had given them a place to start, but there'd been times in the last week he would have traded everything for ten minutes of solitude.

No, not solitude. _Peace_. Ten minutes to sit quietly with Bucky. That had been the last real moment of peace he'd had.

A brief wave of longing speared him, out of the blue and surprising. He wasn't _that_ far from Bucky's stretch of the ocean, and if he turned to face it the wind would be at his back…

No. He had a job to finish. When it was done, when he'd handed over the signed agreement he was carrying and briefed Commander Hill, _then_ he could fly out and see Bucky.

He laughed at himself, the wind picking up the sound and pulling it away. How had he turned into someone who was disappointed he didn't have time to visit a triton?

Laughter like a mocking echo had him whirling mid-beat, the wind pushing against his wings, his hair, his clothes. He squinted, shading his eyes with his hand, and the shadow resolved into a broad, winged shape.

Another Icarian. Steve tensed, hand dropping to rest near his knife as the Icarian glided closer. It wasn't the first time he'd encountered other Icarians. It almost always went badly.

Once, only once, had it gone any other way, and that had been when Clint had found him. Steve had been braced then, just like he was braced now, but all Clint had done was throw away his bow and sink to the ground, wings wrapped around himself and say, "I'm not going back. I don't care. You can't make me go back." There'd been a hell in eyes Steve had recognised and Steve had taken him to The City.

Steve looked into the eyes of the big, broad Icarian with the steel grey wings who was facing him, and knew he wasn't another Clint. If there was a hell in his eyes, it was waiting for Steve.

And he was grinning. "Don't see many of your kind around."

"What kind is that?" Steve asked, back-winging away, putting distance between them, ready to spin and fly. He wasn't letting Grey-wings get close to him.

"Oh, you know," he pointed at the rune on Steve's wrist, "the ones that couldn't take it and slunk away for an easy life. Don't your kind usually stay cuddled up in your precious city?"

Steve didn't reply. It wasn't easy, but he refused to let himself be baited.

Grey-wings snorted. "At least you did your duty to Icaria by leaving and keeping yourself out of the bloodlines."

"Happy to oblige." He didn't touch his knife but kept his hand close to it. "Are we done here?"

The smile that spread over Grey-wings' face was chilling. "No," he said softly. "We're not." A hard beat of his wings brought him too close and Steve shot up, twisting in mid-air, spinning away, but Grey-wings followed.

Or he tried to. Steve had the wind at his back, was as small and slender as a well-honed knife, and he cut through the air like a blade. There wasn't an Icarian in the world who could keep up with him.

He glanced back. Grey-wings was a shadow, falling behind. A flash of brown whipped his head around and sudden, stinging pain had him scrabbling at his shoulder. A dart. He stared at it, dumbfounded, as a brown winged Icarian swooped down, fighting the headwind.

He'd been in front of Steve. He'd been _waiting_.

Steve let the dart fall and _flew. _He was fast, he was so fast, but whatever they'd darted him with was creeping through his veins.

The world was slowing.

They were on him.

He pulled his knives and slashed. Stabbed. Cut. Blood sprayed as pain burned in his shoulder and his wing faltered. Grey-wings grabbed him, pinned him, Steve's wings were crushed against his chest, he could feel feathers _breaking,_ and he lashed back with his feet, smashed his head back, but Grey-wings whirled and the sky spun.

"I know who you are," Grey-wings said, harsh and panting. "Useless, skinny shit like you, wings like yours, I _remember_ you. You're a _traitor_. You told them we were coming. You're the reason we died. You're the reason we _lost_."

His breath was hot and wet against Steve's cheek as he snapped out, "Grab his legs. I'll cut his throat then we'll take his head and his wings."

Steve struggled, but whatever they'd darted him with had stolen his strength, had cast his wings in lead, and left him with nothing.

"Is this really him?" Brown-wings asked with a kind of furious wonder that made Steve want to laugh. Or cry. He didn't know, maybe there wasn't a difference.

"It's really him." The knife was huge, as big as the sun, and Steve looked past it to the bright golden sun. There was no god to save _him_, but at least he wasn't going to die alone. He had the watchful sun and he struggled to get his hand free, to press his fingers over his heart one last time.

Grey-wings grabbed his hand, shoved it down, knife twisting away, and then an avalanche hit Steve with a roar like thunder. It tore him free and bore him down, down into the sea, the water soaking his wings, turning them to stone, burying him under the weight of a mountain and he struggled to escape but it was useless. 

It was useless, he was going to drown under the mountain, born down by an avalanche, an avalanche that…

He stared up into eyes gone black from edge to edge as a clawed hand sealed itself over his nose and mouth and teeth like knives sank into his arm. He arched into a muffled scream, fought with all his strength but it meant nothing against the body holding him tight. He had a brief glimpse of a mouth red with his blood roaring up at winged shadows, and then the water closed over his head.

He didn't drown. The water flowed into his mouth like air and he didn't know what was true and what was false and the hand buried in his hair, brutal claws brushing against his skin, was, was…

The shadows swooped lower.

Bucky, because it was Bucky, or it was something that had once been Bucky, before black eyes and black claws and blood and teeth, pushed Steve lower in the water and roared.

"I don't care who he is," Brown-wings said. "I'm not getting between a triton and his food."

"No." Grey-wings swooped low, dodging to avoid Bucky's half-lunge, and scooped up a handful of broken, bloody feathers. "These should do. No one's got wings like he did." He grinned. "Enjoy your meal. He's a traitor, so if you can eat him alive, I'd take it as a personal favour."

Steve thrashed, and then they were falling, falling, no, diving. Swimming, until they stopped, the dark water illuminated by the glow from Bucky's tail. His eyes were black, his claws sharp, and he pressed a hand against Steve's face. 

Steve stared up at him and understood he was prey. Claws and teeth and eyes and he'd been bitten. But Bucky's hold was nothing but careful strength, his face painted in fear, and his touch…the hand cradling his cheek was almost unforgivably gentle.

Suddenly Bucky was Bucky again. His eyes were still black, his hands were still claws, but he was the man who'd licked honey off his fingers, the man who'd watched over him while he slept.

Steve wasn't prey, he'd never be prey. He let himself go, trusting he'd come safely through the other side.

* * *

Bucky had been lazily gathering seaweed for Bruce when he'd caught the taste of blood on the drifting current.

It wasn't unusual. The ocean was an endless battle for survival, little fish getting eaten by big fish and big fish getting eaten by bigger fish, forever and ever, and that meant the ocean teemed with blood.

Not this blood. This blood was…familiar.

It wasn't close, but it didn't need to be, he could scent blood from miles off, but he couldn't figure out why it was…

The world sharpened as his pupils blew, claws sliding out. Steve. It was Steve.

Steve was bleeding into the ocean.

The seaweed tumbled away as he dropped it, driving through the water, following the scent. He broke the surface in time to see an Icarian clamp Steve against his chest, bark orders to the other one to take Steve's head. Take his wings.

Fury unfurled through him, but he had to think. He could take down the one holding Steve, but they were locked together, the knife too close to risk it; take down the other, but what would the one holding Steve do while he did it?

He was going to have to take Steve. Steve, who was already hurt. Already bleeding. There was no way to do it without hurting him more. And his wings…

He'd have to be so careful of his wings.

Bucky swam deep then drove himself out of the water and slammed into Steve, tearing him out of their hands and down into the waves. He twisted to hit first, body between Steve and the water, between Steve's wings and the water, but he needed them to believe. And he needed Steve not to drown.

Steve was fighting, thrashing, and he pinned him against his body, the weight of the water effectively securing his wings. _I'm sorry, Steve. I'm so sorry. _He sank his teeth into Steve's arm, then shoved his head underwater.

It was violent, bloody, Steve was terrified, Bucky wanted to scream, but he folded himself over Steve and roared at the two Icarians. The two Icarians he wanted to kill for what they'd done to Steve, for what they were making him do to Steve.

But it worked. He almost had one of them when he swooped low, almost caught him, almost pulled him into the water and tore his throat out, but it would have meant exposing Steve, risking Steve, leaving Steve alone to drift in the water with his sodden wings.

As fast as he could, he got Steve away, down through the water, down into safety, until he could stop. Steve was staring up at him, eyes filled with his own death. There was too much anger for Bucky to shed his claws, too much fear, and he knew his eyes were still black, but he touched Steve's cheek, as gentle as he knew how to be, promising without words that he was safe.

Like a gift, Steve's eyes cleared, and then he was lolling against Bucky's chest, unconscious, and his fear spiked hard. 

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, just to breathe, holding Steve close, then they snapped open and he swam for the cove.

He needed Bruce. Steve needed Bruce.

The cove wasn't far, and Bucky wriggled out of the water, holding Steve and rubbing his back while his body coughed and choked, trying to adjust to something it had always known how to do after believing it was supposed to breathe water.

He avoided looking at his bite, red and angry on Steve's arm. Steve's wings hung limp, stained with blood, and he didn't know what to do for them. He settled on lying Steve on his stomach and carefully stretching his wings out before wriggling all the way out of the water and hand-walking to the edge of the trees.

Bruce could be anywhere. He had to hope he was close enough to hear.

Pulling in a breath, he tipped his head back and _roared_ Bruce's name. Birds exploded from the trees in panicked flight, starting a chain reaction, and soon the sky was full, black clouds curving against the blue sky. He curled his hands, claws punching through the turf, but there was nothing more he could do.

He slipped back into the water and swam to the circle of ancient stone walls that was his shelter, pulled himself out, and hand-walked across the sand to the wooden boxes. There was a blanket there, along with firelighters, waterskins, other bits and pieces. He grabbed the blanket, draped it over his neck, and hand-walked through the gap in the walls and back to Steve.

Steve had cuts. A deep stab wound on his right shoulder that was bleeding freely. He was still clutching a knife. Bucky folded the blanket and put it under his head, then pried his fingers off the knife and sliced through the leather strap, setting the messenger tube aside, then cut Steve's shirt off, folding it to press against the stab wound.

_Come on, Bruce. I need you. _

It wasn't long until Bruce was kneeling next to him. He set a bag in the sand. Bucky had seen it before; it held everything he used to treat injuries.

"How did you know?" His voice was shaky with relief.

He gently pushed Bucky's hands away. "I can't imagine why else you'd be bellowing for me. I was expecting to be patching you up, though. Not an Icarian." There was a question in his voice, but he didn't hesitate, gently running assessing hands over Steve.

"He's my…" What was Steve? He didn't know. He was something. Something important enough he hadn't hesitated to save him. "…friend."

Bruce shot him a sideways look.

"Please help him."

"Of course."

Bucky moved to Steve's head, resting a hand on his hair, and watched Bruce examine Steve.

When he was done, he sat back. "The stab wound needs to be stitched, and he won't be flying until it's healed. He's got bruising over his ribs, but the ribs are fine." Bucky winced. "The bite will heal on its own." Bucky winced again and looked away. "Everything else is minor. I think they darted him with something. There's a wound here," he pointed, "and it would explain why he's unconscious."

"He'll be okay?"

"He'll be fine as long as he rests and we get something in him to help with infection."

The rush of relief nearly left him giddy and he leaned forward to rest his forehead on Steve's hair. He stayed that way while Bruce worked on Steve, not lifting his head until he said, "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Steve, he's from The City. I guess that makes him a traitor as far as Icarians are concerned, because two of them tried to kill him. They were going to cut off his wings and his head."

Bruce's hands paused, then he resumed stitching.

"I had to get Steve away from them." His tail twitched with remembered fury, with remembered fear. "I acted like a triton. I dragged him out of the sky, that's how he got bruised. I bit him so he could breathe underwater. I acted like he was food. They were convinced and left him to me."

Bruce's deep voice was soft as he asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He ran his fingers through Steve's hair, remembering the moment his eyes had cleared, when his fear had vanished. "I'm fine."


	6. Chapter 6

_"Why should we trade or pay for what they grow when we can simply make it our own?"_

_Steve, standing at the back of the high-vaulted room war room with the other messengers, too lightweight to fulfil his military service any other way, kept his eyes on the ceiling, carefully not reacting as Pierce spoke. _

_"And it's not as if it will make much difference to their lives. They'll still go about their business, farm their fields, tend to their animals, they'll simply be under permanent Icarian…protection. Of course we'll leave them enough to live on. All they'll need to do is as they're told." _

_"And how do you plan to accomplish this?" There was no condemnation in the question, nothing to indicate any objection to Pierce's plan. Only curiosity, approval. Eagerness. _

_Pierce's teeth were sharp, too sharp, as sharp as a triton's as he smiled, his blue eyes gone black from edge to edge as his black wings spread to fill the room. "Hard and fast. Shock can freeze a nation as easily as it can freeze a man." _

_The room spun, dissolved, and Erskine was shaking him, hands bruisingly tight on his shoulders. _

_"Go. Steven, you have to go. If they catch you, they'll kill you." _

_"That's no different than what they're going to do to you."_

_"I assure you, Steven. It will be different. We can fight back. We can win." Erskine grabbed his hands. "We can do both of those because you warned us. Some of us will die, yes, but if they catch you, they'll cut you to pieces while you're still alive and parade them through every part of Icaria. Not only will you die horribly, they'll use you against any other Icarian who might one day decide to fight back. Don't let them do either. Go now, while you can. Go to The City and don't look back." _

_Steve went. He could do nothing else. But he looked back. For a long time, he looked back as his people descended on an innocent island they'd intended to conquer by surprise. The waters around the island churned red as tritons attacked and killed and sometimes devoured anyone the Icarians managed to drop into the water. _

_That had been their plan. Arrive unexpectedly in the middle of the day, when people were going about their business, surround the island with triton mercenaries, and drop innocent people into the water until the island surrendered to Icarian control. _

_But Steve had warned them. The plan was failing. Icarians were falling from the sky, wings aflame or pierced with arrows, and the ones who hit the water were attacked as quickly as anyone else. The tritons made no distinction. _

_"Gonna cut your head off." Something grabbed him. "Cut your wings off. Parade you through the streets." _

Steve burst up out of sleep with a gasp, face shoved in a bundle of cloth, and he couldn't move because there was someone looming over him with their hand in his wings.

He surged up, wings snapping out—and it _hurt_, right shoulder burning—spun, and came face to face with Bucky, whose eyes went wide, then Bucky was eeling backwards towards the water. 

Steve lasted another few seconds, then he wobbled and hit his knees, wings falling forward as he gasped for breath, braced on his left hand, right arm folded against his bare chest.

Bucky stayed where he was, not in the water but close to it, face blank.

It had been Bucky with his hand in his wings, Bucky looming over him, only he hadn't been looming, he'd just been there. "Sorry," Steve said. "Bad dream."

"You should lie down." Bucky's voice was as blank as his face. "We think they darted you with something and it's probably still affecting you."

Bucky was right. He could feel it, swimming behind his eyes. Wincing, he carefully turned and lay down on his stomach, arranging his right wing so it didn't pull at the line of fire on his shoulder. He was lying on what felt like a makeshift mattress, a blanket wrapped around something soft, maybe grasses, but it meant he couldn’t see Bucky.

He wanted to see Bucky.

He _needed_ to see Bucky.

How much of what had happened had been a dream? How much of what he remembered was because of whatever they'd darted him with?

The only thing he knew was true was that Bucky had saved him.

"Bucky? Can you move where I can see you?"

"I'll have to get close to you."

He pushed up one elbow so he could look over his shoulder, which hurt, but he grit his teeth and dealt with it. "Okay?"

Slowly, Bucky nodded, then he pulled himself over to sit where Steve could see him—as far away from Steve as he could get in the circle of stone that surrounded them. His tail didn't drag behind him, Steve noticed, he could see the muscles working to help move it along the ground, and he curled it neatly when he stopped. The glow was muted, but Steve let his eyes settle on it. "I have some questions."

"Ask."

"Where am I? What happened? I'm not sure what's real and what's part of my nightmare."

"This is where I live." A shadow slipped through Bucky's eyes. "How much do you remember?"

"I remember getting attacked by Icarians. They were going to cut off my head and my wings." He lifted his gaze to Bucky's and Bucky gave a slight nod. "I couldn't fight because they darted me with something." His gaze sharpened. "You saved me."

The shadow returned, darker than before. "You don't remember."

"I remember that."

"Look at your arm."

It took some wriggling, but Steve managed it. There was a bite on his left bicep, deep and clean. Obviously it had been treated while he'd been unconscious. Just as obviously, it was Bucky's. He stared at it, and memory came flooding back: the pain, the fear, the terrified confusion. Just as clearly, the gentleness of Bucky's touch and the certainty Bucky would see him safe.

Awkwardly, he curled his wing around to brush his feathers across it. It stung, a little, but nothing serious. It didn't hurt, not like his shoulder. "Why?" He was careful to keep it soft, no accusation.

"So you could breathe underwater. So you wouldn't drown."

That left him blinking at the bite. "You can do that?"

"All tritons can."

"That's incredible."

"It's really not. It's so we can keep our prey alive, so we can _eat_ it alive."

Steve swallowed, then carefully turned back around find Bucky staring at his hands. He stretched out a wing and gently brushed Bucky with it. Bucky startled so hard he almost knocked his head on the stone. "Bucky." He kept his voice gentle. "You did what you had to do to save me." His wings were a mess, feathers fluffed out, broken, but he could still curl one around Bucky. "You _saved_ me. Thank you."

Bucky stared at him for a long time, pupils blown black, then they slowly faded to blue-grey and he puffed out a breath. "Yeah, well," his tail twitched across the sand, "you're welcome." He awkwardly patted Steve's wing and Steve pulled it back.

"I don't suppose my messenger tube made it?"

Without a word, Bucky shifted down to some boxes, and pulled out Steve's still sealed messenger tube with the strap cut, one of his knives, and the remains of his shirt. He set them down next to Steve. Steve couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief. "You're amazing."

"Not really. The tube was strapped to you, we had to cut it off to treat you, your shirt, too, and you wouldn't let go of the knife. Not even when you passed out."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"We?"

"A friend of mine came to help."

Steve mulled that over. Something in the way Bucky said it didn't invite questions. "What's wrong with me?"

"A few cuts. There's a deep one on your right shoulder that's stitched up, I don't think you'll be flying for a while." He paused. "Your ribs are probably sore from where I hit you and there's the bite."

"Did what you had to do," Steve repeated softly.

Bucky tilted his head in acknowledgement. "And I don't know if there's anything wrong with your wings. I tried to be careful of them." 

Steve closed his eyes and flexed them, hissing at the pain in his shoulder, but nothing felt wrong. He opened his eyes to Bucky's worried stare. "They're fine, Bucky. A mess, there's some broken feathers, but they're fine. I think you're right about not flying for a while."

And the lack of concern he felt about that was all the proof he needed that whatever they'd darted him with was still with him. The whole world felt oddly distant. He'd almost died. He was hurt, not badly but he couldn't fly, which meant he had no way to get the agreement or himself back to The City. He didn't know how long it would take before someone missed him, and if they started looking for him if they'd even think to look in this direction. But he was here with Bucky, where he knew he was safe, and he found it hard to worry about any of it. He knew he should, but right now he didn't.

He must have dozed off, or maybe drifted off, because Bucky was looking at him oddly. "I should get you some water."

"Don't go." It slipped out, and he could have bitten his tongue.

Bucky hesitated, then brushed a hand over Steve's hair, smoothing it back. "I'm not going far, and I'll be right back, but you need to drink."

He watched Bucky half wriggle, half walk on his hands out of the circle of stone and out of sight. He was oddly graceful, for all that he was not something that belonged on land. He returned with a waterskin and set it near Steve.

"You should sit up. I don't want you to drown yourself on dry land."

"And waste all your hard work."

Bucky snorted. "Something like that. Here, up on your knees." Another brief hesitation, then Bucky slid a broad hand under his bare chest and lifted, slow and careful, and Steve was sitting up on his knees, not too sure how he'd gotten there.

"Here." Bucky handed him the open water skin and after the first sip, Steve realised he was parched. He sucked it down, glaring at Bucky when he said, "Slow down or you'll puke," but he slowed down. Even so, it was empty in minutes.

"Told you you needed to drink."

"Hmmph."

It made Bucky laugh, a soft, rolling sound that flowed over Steve like a warm updraft. It made him want to curl down, so he did, Bucky's hands on his chest, on his arm, warm and strong, easing him back down to his stomach.

"Get some more sleep." Bucky's voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

"Stay?" he said, and this time he didn't care what it made him sound like.

"Not going anywhere, Steve."

* * *

Bucky mostly kept his word. He stayed next to Steve until he was asleep, and then he didn't go far. He slipped into the water to keep his tail from drying out, lying in the water with his chest in the sand, watching Steve sleep. He dove down, leaving Steve alone just long enough to feed himself and catch something for Steve, hauling back a fat fish.

He made himself comfortable, tail in the shallows, to gut the fish, scaling and slicing it open with his claws. He set it aside on a rock, dove back under to wash his hands, then hand-walked up to sit with Steve again.

Who stirred and blinked a few hours later and said, "I have to go. I have to get back to The City."

"And how are you going to get there? Walk?"

"If I have to," he said stubbornly, reminding him strongly of the Steve who'd almost fallen into the ocean, he'd been so tired.

"You're not going to walk to The City."

"You can't stop me," he said, struggling to rise

Without a word, Bucky reached out, planted a hand between his wings, and held him in place.

Steve didn't look impressed. "And? You'd be able to do that even if I wasn't hurt."

Bucky huffed at him and spread his fingers wide, more of a gentle stroke than anything else. "But you are hurt. You almost got killed yesterday. You're in no condition to walk to The City."

"I have to try. I can't just lie around here. People are gonna be worried." 

"How soon?"

"What?"

"How soon will be people be worried?"

Steve frowned. "I don't know. A few days, I guess? Maybe more?" 

"Okay, so at least three days 'til you're missed. If you give me your word to rest tonight and tomorrow night, I'll take you back to The City."

"You."

"Me." His tail twitched at the idea; he'd always been careful to stay away from The City. "Not right to the walls, but close enough you _can_ walk."

"How are you going to take me?"

"Ever ridden a horse?"

"No."

"But you're familiar with the concept."

"Never heard of it," Steve drawled sardonically. "What's a horse?"

Bucky gently flicked the nearest feather and Steve grinned at him. "I'll carry you. I can swim faster than you can fly, anyway."

"You can't."

Bucky smiled smugly.

"No you can't," Steve said. "When I can fly again I'll prove it to you."

"When you can fly again, all you're gonna prove is you can't keep up."

"You tell yourself whatever you need to keep yourself happy."

"Remind me again who grabbed who when they decided to play in the water?" Steve scowled at him and Bucky laughed. "I thought so."

"We'll see." Steve searched his face. "Are you really willing to carry me back to The City?"

"If it keeps you from being an idiot and trying to walk there? Yes."

"Seem like I have to keep thanking you."

"You really don't."

Steve smiled gently, and his eyes were warm as he stretched his wing out to settle on Bucky's tail. Bucky had to suppress a shiver, the feel of Steve's feathers, soft and kind, settling in his chest like a glowing ember.

"You sure?"

He curled his fingers around a pale pinion. "I'm sure." Silence fell between them, Bucky gently running his fingertips across the feather, trying to smooth it back into shape—it was fragile, breakable, and Steve was just trusting it to him, his breathing slow and easy as he watched Bucky.

Eventually he stirred, making a face. "Can I be an idiot and walk somewhere I can pee?"

Bucky laughed. "Yeah. And then you can be an idiot and walk somewhere you can have a fire and something to eat. If you're hungry?"

"Starving."

Bucky helped him up, Steve's skin smooth and warm under his hands, but there was nothing he could do to help Steve walk. He was a little unstable at first, his right wing drooping, but he steadied. Bucky pointed him into the woods and started gathering Bruce's fire-making supplies. By the time Steve came back and washed his hands in the ocean, he had the fish speared over a blazing fire.

"It's not wriggling," Steve said as he carefully sat next to Bucky, somehow finding his way into the curve of Bucky's tail.

"I know you land folk prefer it cooked."

Steve huffed a laugh and Bucky smiled. 

"I can look after it if you want." At Bucky's questioning look, he added, "Figured your tail would dry out so close to the fire."

Bucky stared at him.

"What?"

"Nothing." It was unexpected, was all, someone else thinking that way, caring enough to think that way, and the little ember flared brighter. "I'll be right for a while."

When the fish was cooked, and he relied on Steve to tell him when that was, they moved closer to the water so Bucky could dive under the waves, thoroughly soaking himself, and lie in the shallows, watching Steve eat.

He didn't seem to be enjoying it. When he'd eaten half, he set it aside, leaning forward on his updrawn knees. Bucky watched him, threads of concern weaving themselves through his voice. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

Bucky studied him. He looked exhausted, whole body drooping, a bit of flotsam spat up by the ocean, wings ragged and tangled. "Truth, Steve."

Steve sighed. "Truth? I feel lousy."

"You'll feel better if you lie down and rest."

He just grunted. Bucky braced himself for an argument, then Steve sighed again. "Help me up?"

It told Bucky just how lousy Steve really was feeling. It was nothing to put his hands on Steve's hips and lift him to his feet, Steve resting a hand on his shoulder before walking back to the blanket. He sank down to his knees and Bucky braced him with one hand on his chest, helping him lie down on his stomach.

As he settled his wings, the pinion Bucky had smoothed back into shape stood out against the rest of his feathers. "Your wings are a mess," he murmured.

"Thanks," Steve said dryly. "I hadn't noticed."

"I can try and help." It was tentative, because he wasn't sure he could help. Wasn't sure Steve would want him touching his wings. "If you want?"

Interest sparked in Steve's eyes. "You'd do that?"

"You'll have to tell me what to do," he warned. "I don't want to hurt them."

"You won't." The easy way Steve said it hit him like a storm-fed wave. "All you've got to do is pull out the fluff and the broken feathers, try and get the rest of them to lie straight."

"I am _not_ pulling out your feathers."

"They're not attached anymore. They're just hanging there." He ruffled his wings. "And they _itch_."

It didn't sound hard, and even ragged as they were, Steve's feathers were still soft. Following Steve's instructions, he sank his fingers into his wing and gently started working the broken feathers free. The larger feathers came easily, but smaller ones and the fluff clung stubbornly.

He huffed in quiet frustration as he dragged his fingers down, Steve's wing stretched across his tail. Steve, sounding sleepy, shifted, and Bucky's hands went still as he said, "You can use your claws."

He stared down at his hands with their blunt, harmless fingertips, half hidden by Steve's pale feathers, and swallowed. Steve was relaxed, his eyes half-open, watching Bucky, but he wasn't _watchful. _He wasn't wary.

Bucky's sudden claws were brutally black against the delicate pale of Steve's wings. They were sharp but they were precise, and he carefully—more carefully than he'd ever done anything in his life—pulled them through Steve's feathers.

Clouds of fluff puffed into the air. Steve went boneless under him, his wing drifting wide, and his, "They _itched_," was half groan. 

Bucky almost laughed. As he worked, the swirling breeze created a drift of white against the stone. Eventually he switched to the other wing, starting to work its broken feathers free, murmuring, "I tried to be careful of them," not sure if he was talking to Steve or himself.

"You are. You were." Under his hands, he felt some of Steve's bonelessness slip away. "Bucky. You're the only reason I still have them. They would have cut them off. I knew, I always knew if they found me, that's what they'd do, but…" A shudder passed through Steve's body, making his wings rustle.

Bucky ran a soothing palm down his spine, claws twisted away, and felt Steve let out a long slow breath. "Having your own people try to kill you, even if you know they're gonna do it, is hard."

"Hard." Steve started laughing. There wasn't any humour in it, but it was the kind of laughter that comes from deep down, dragged up because there's nothing you can do _but_ laugh.

Bucky knew it well.

He pressed on the spot between Steve's wings, soft feathers tickling his palm, fingers brushing Steve's skin as his claws disappeared.

Gradually, the laughter faded and Steve's whole body slumped. "Hard," he repeated. "Yeah, you could say that."

"I _could_ say that." He kept it soft, neutral._ I understand_. A hand extended if Steve wanted to take it. Easily ignorable if Steve didn't.

Steve rolled onto his side, wincing as it pulled his shoulder—Bucky could _see_ the stitches straining and he didn't swear, but he did put a hand on Steve's chest to match the one on his back and took his weight.

"Thanks," Steve said, and Bucky managed a disapproving look as he helped Steve fold his wing more comfortably.

"Next time ask before you move, and it won't hurt."

Steve gave a distracted nod that Bucky knew meant nothing. He was curled on his side now, facing Bucky, gaze intent. "You could say that," Steve repeated. "Is that what happened to you?"

He'd never talked about this. He'd never told Bruce, and there'd never been anyone else to tell. Why had he thought telling Steve was a good idea?

Steve touched his tail, his hand warm on the thick skin, and feathers brushed his arm. "Or you can lecture me more about moving around."

"Nah. Not gonna waste my time when I know you won't listen." Steve huffed a quiet laugh and Bucky sank into the sound of it, met it with a flashing grin, since suddenly telling Steve was the simplest thing in the world. He wasn't sure why he'd thought it would be hard. "My band were mercenaries. Not surprising," he added with a soft snort. "That's what we all are, tritons who decide to be part of the lands."

Steve nodded.

"I decided to stop being one. The rest of my band objected." He ran a hand over the scattered scars on his chest. "I do know what it's like."

The hand on his tail tightened. "I'm sorry, Bucky."

"Don't need to be sorry. It wasn't your fault."

"I can still be sorry it happened," he pointed out. "And I am. No one's got the right to try and force you to fight."

"My band would say differently. Every triton band would say differently. Tritons were made to fight. That's the point of us."

"They're wrong." Steve's voice was the kind of strong that dragged mountains up from the ocean's floor. If he'd ever doubted, that voice would have washed them away. 

"Just like those two were wrong to try and kill you." The memory woke shivers of anger, but he kept them contained.

Until Steve looked away.

"It's a little different for me. Like I said, I always knew it could happen." The wing resting against Bucky flared, blocking out the sun, and for a moment it glowed molten around the edges. "They had their reasons."

His anger grew and Bucky rose up, tail curled under him, looming over Steve. Like Icarians would come diving down from the sky. Like Steve would suddenly throw himself up to meet them.

Steve's eyes widened—surprise, not fear. The part of Bucky not halfway enraged by the idea of Steve _deserving_ what they'd tried to do to him noticed. It noticed and it _glowed_. The rest of him growled, "No."

Steve's voice was flat. "I'm not saying they were right to do it. I'm saying they had their reasons. I betrayed Icaria. I did it deliberately. I made my choice, knowing the consequences. I _am_ a traitor. And that's what they do to traitors."

"You're a traitor just for choosing this?" He touched the rune on Steve's wrist.

"No," Steve said, gaze drifting up to sky. "No, there's been other Icarians who've made it to The City. They're just branded cowards and weaklings. To be a _traitor_ you have to be something else."

There was an almost feral light in Steve's eyes, cold and dangerous. He felt his claws itching, knew his pupils were widening, instincts reacting to another predator. Steve was dangerous. He hadn't understood that before, not fully.

But Steve wasn't dangerous to him. He let that knowledge filter through him, and his instincts calmed. Delicately, he touched his fingertips to Steve's forearm.

Steve started, then the corner of his mouth lifted, the light in his eyes faded. When they met Bucky's, they were like new-cut glass. "Do you want to hear this?"

"I want to hear anything you'll tell me." It wasn't until the last word that he realised how true it was. He filed it away to worry about later, because Steve was speaking.

"About three years ago, Icaria decided to get into the conquering business. There's a big island, not too far from Icaria. They're a farming nation, crops and herds. Icaria got sick of trading for what they needed. They decided to take it. Attack in secret and enslave the people. I warned them. That made me a traitor." His lips curled, not quite a smile. "If you want to know the truth, I'm actually proud of that." 

Bucky only knew his heart was still beating because he could see the pulse thrumming in his wrist. He was having trouble coming up with words.

Steve's not-a-smile faded, replaced by concern. "Bucky?"

"The plan. It was using triton mercs. Wasn't it?"

"Yes, but…" He trailed off. "Were you—" He cut himself off and shook his head. "No."

"No. There's things I've done I'd undo if I could, fights I've had I'd…" He swallowed. "No matter how outmatched they were, everyone I've fought could fight back. I've never butchered innocents."

"Bucky." Steve's hand was against his chest, warm and solid. "I believe you."

He gave a quick nod of his head, because if he set free what those words did to him, he'd explode. "What they wanted us to do, that's what drove me out. Out of fighting. Out of all of it."

Steve pressed hard against his chest, and it felt grounding. Bucky leaned into it, then made himself pull back, afraid he'd hurt Steve's shoulder.

"If things had gone differently," Steve said, "we'd have both been there."

"I think that would have been very different."

"Yeah, it would've. But we weren't, because you made a choice, just like me."

"_Not_ like you." Steve hadn't left when faced with what Icaria had planned; he'd actively acted against them.

Steve's eyes held him, as clean and clear as the ocean. "We both made a choice they tried to kill us for. We both turned ourselves into something new. Everything else is just," he fluttered his wing, "details."

There was a clean, clear spot in his heart, wrapped around a bright glowing ember, as they listened to the waves against the sand, Steve's hand resting on his chest like he'd forgotten to move it. 

Steve stirred as the silence stretched. "But I _am_ surprised," he said, half-teasing, half-hopeful, "your something new included skilled wing groomer."

A laugh bubbled from Bucky didn't know where. "Subtle." Not taking his eyes off Steve's, he twisted his hands and his claws appeared.

Steve sighed happily and flattened his wing across Bucky's tail. "It still itches." 

When he sunk gleaming claws into Steve's feathers and Steve's eyes drifted closed he had to laugh, soft and quiet, and reach out to brush a clawed hand through Steve's hair.

Steve sighed again, whole body melting under his touch.

"I can't believe they let you out unsupervised," Bucky murmured under his breath, not quite intending Steve to hear.

He did. "You sound like my friend Sam." There was a half-smile on Steve's face. "But if you're getting at what I think you're getting at, I am careful—when I need to be. Not when I know I'm safe."

Bucky's heart seized, stopped, then roared into life, the glowing ember flaring into full-fledged flame. He licked his lips, swallowed once, then managed to say, soft and fond, "Sure you are."


	7. Chapter 7

The rising sun pulled Steve from sleep. His aches and pains woke him fully.

He was curled on his left side, left wing flattened under him, the other folded behind him, and he pressed his fingers over his heart, eyes on the sun, before turning his attention to the weight on his calf. 

It was Bucky. Or more precisely, Bucky's head. He didn't look comfortable, half-sprawled out of the water, the waves lapping at his tail, his cheek mashed against Steve's leg, hands curled against his chest like he was keeping them from touching.

His hair had fallen over his face. Moving carefully, so he wouldn't pull his shoulder, Steve sat up and delicately brushed it out of his face. Bucky twitched, murmured, and cuddled closer. Tentatively, Steve combed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back behind his ear. It was silky, sliding between his fingertips, cool against his palm, long enough he could have wrapped both hands in it.

Bucky's eyelids fluttered, but he didn't wake.

He might have kept going, might have run his fingers through Bucky's hair until he woke, but there was a sudden crunch of sand and a massive shadow blocked out the sun.

Aches and pains forgotten, _protect Bucky _drove him to his feet. He snatched his knife from where Bucky had tucked it and snapped his wings out, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder, ignoring the way the right wing drooped as his shoulder refused to carry its weight, and planted himself between the—

He faltered slightly as he realised he was facing a minotaur half again his height with a waterskin in one hand and plants in the other, but he didn't back down.

The minotaur snorted, impressive coming from nostrils that size. "I guess that's the kind of gratitude I should expect from an Icarian."

Before he could reply, a hand curled around his wrist. "Steve," Bucky said. "Put down the knife."

He looked down at Bucky, then up at the minotaur, then set it down.

Then promptly sat down, harder than he'd meant to.

"Idiot," Bucky muttered, shoving him gently to lie down, one hand spread wide on his back to support him.

"Sorry," he said, tilting his head to make sure the minotaur—obviously someone Bucky knew, obviously not a threat, however tall and wide—knew Steve was talking to him. "Sorry, but he was sleeping and I saw the shadow and…" He trailed off, embarrassed.

"You were protecting _Bucky_." There was rumbling amusement in the minotaur's voice and a noise he couldn't interpret from Bucky.

"Yeah."

This snort was much softer, but somehow much more amused.

"Steve, this is Bruce. He's the one who patched you up."

Inside, Steve cringed. "I'm _really_ sorry," he said. "And grateful. Thank you."

"Now that's _not_ gratitude I'd expect from an Icarian." He held out the waterskin and some leaves. "Here, drink this, and chew these."

Steve sat up, Bucky with an arm around him, and reached to take them.

"The leaves will help stop you from getting a fever or an infection. The water's self-explanatory."

"Leaves first," Bucky said. "They taste like shit."

"And then I want to see your shoulder."

Steve blinked, blinked again, then said, "You're a minotaur, right?"

"Yes."

"And you want me to eat these leaves."

"Yes."

Steve looked down at them. "This has been a strange morning," he said, and shoved them in his mouth. They were revolting, bitter and acrid, but he made a face and choked them down. Afterwards, the water tasted sweet as honey.

"You were right," he told Bucky, then looked up at Bruce, "Thanks, I think."

"You'll thank me when you're not delirious with your arm rotting off."

Bucky was hiding a smile when he said, "Up you get, Steve. Let Bruce look at your shoulder."

He let Bucky help him up, then made his way out of the stone circle to the beach and turned his back to Bruce. For all his gruffness, and all their size, his hands were gentle as he pushed Steve's wing out of the way and ran his fingers over Steve's shoulder near the wound. "No heat, no swelling. Your stitches are pulled," it was disapproving, "but it's starting to close. Good."

He motioned for Steve to sit on one of the driftwood logs and passed him another waterskin as Steve tried to adjust to the fact that he was sitting next to a minotaur. That he'd been looked after by a minotaur. There were none in The City, he'd never met one on his travels, which wasn't surprising, since as far as he knew they were rare.

"Bruce, are you staying for breakfast?" Bucky asked.

"Am I invited?"

"Stay," Steve said quickly. "Don't leave because of me."

A look passed between Bucky and Bruce, something he didn't understand, but Bruce grunted. "If I'm staying we're not just eating fish." With that, he picked up the empty waterskins and walked off into the trees.

Steve stared after him.

"He'll be back. You sit. I'm going to catch breakfast."

"What can I do?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "What did I just say? Sit. Rest. Don't pull at your shoulder."

"I could—"

"Steve. Please."

"Fine." He shuffled around, readjusting his wings until they were sitting comfortably. "Happy?"

"Thrilled. Now stay." Bucky slipped down into the water and disappeared.

"I'm not a dog!" Steve called after him.

Left alone, there was nothing to do but think. He watched the ocean where Bucky had disappeared and tried not to worry about whether he'd been missed. 

It was surprisingly easy with so many other things crowding into his mind and clamouring for attention.

Strangely enough the _minotaur _wasn't the loudest. No, that was Bucky. Bucky, who'd he'd been prepared to fight for. Bucky, who'd he'd been determined to protect. Bucky, who he'd woken to find cuddled against his leg, and the memory warmed him all the way through. He could still feel Bucky's hair sliding through his fingertips.

He could still feel Bucky's hands—Bucky's _claws—_sliding through his wings.

Bucky.

Bucky, who'd saved him. Steve rubbed his finger over the bite on his left arm. He'd had to hurt him to do it. Had to scare him to do it, even if it hadn't lasted long. Steve had to wonder what that had cost _Bucky_. Bucky, who was so careful with him, who'd stayed with him, who wanted to make sure he got home safe.

He knew the feelings swirling through him weren't gratitude. He also wasn't sure they were wise. Or even slightly returned.

All those years in The City, no one had ever made him feel like this. He'd started to wonder if he just…couldn't. Now someone finally made his heart sit up and take notice and he was a triton who lived in the wilds.

He put his head in his hand and laughed at himself. He had to, since Sam wasn't here to do it. 

"I only do bodies, I don't do brains."

The rumbling voice made him stop and look up. Way up. Bruce was quirking an eyebrow at him—sort of, he didn't really have eyebrows, but even so, one brow was definitely lifted.

"If you're having some kind of breakdown the best I can do is restrain you until you can get back to that city of yours."

"How are you so quiet?"

Bruce's mouth quirked, obviously a smile, even on his inhuman face, and his eyes warmed with it, like Steve had genuinely amused him. They were almost the strangest thing about him, completely human in his bull's head, with its capped horns and long ears. Steve glanced at his hooves.

"Is there a problem?" Bruce asked.

"I'm just checking for cat paws."

Bruce chuckled and started unfolding a bundle of mushrooms, shoots, plant sprigs and large leaves.

Steve fidgeted a little. "I want to apologise for this morning."

"You already did," Bruce replied without looking up.

"Maybe. But I wanted to do it properly and say thank you for treating my injuries. You didn't have to, and I appreciate it. If there's any way I can repay you…"

A big hand was waved dismissively in his direction, then Bruce lifted his head. "Actually, there is something you can do. You can answer a question. Answer it honestly."

"If I can, I will."

"This morning. Were you really protecting Bucky?" 

He didn't want to answer, but he owed Bruce. "Yes." He felt his ears go pink.

"You know he's a triton."

"And that means he doesn't deserve to be protected?" He could feel himself bristling, knew he wasn't keeping out of his voice.

Bruce just looked at him mildly. "I doubt it's something anyone's ever tried to do before." His head tilted as he studied Steve, and Steve had to look away. Bruce hummed thoughtfully as gathered wood and started a fire.

By the time Bucky came back, the fire was blazing merrily and Steve was slicing mushrooms while Bruce shredded the shoots.

"Fish," he called and Bruce collected them while Bucky hand-walked up the beach to settle next to Steve.

Steve fought the urge to fold a wing around him.

"You doing okay?" Bucky asked quietly.

"I'm fine. Bruce put me to work." He gestured at the mushrooms. "We're going to stuff the fish."

Bucky made a face. "Glad I already ate."

"Is it just cooked fish you don't like?"

"All cooked meat. I don't like it and it doesn't like me."

"But pastries are fine," he said, straight-faced.

"They're alright, I guess." He gave an unimpressed sniff, like Steve hadn't seen him eat a whole bag of them and then lick honey off his fingers. 

Steve grinned and offered him a mushroom. "It's raw?"

Bucky popped it into his mouth.

"Watch it," Bruce grumbled without looking up. "Those are for the fish."

"And that's why I stick with raw fish. So Bruce doesn't yell at me."

Steve chuckled and Bruce came to collect the mushrooms. The mushrooms and shredded roots and plant sprigs went into the fish, which Bruce wrapped in wet leaves and put on stones at the edge of the fire.

When they were steaming, he set one on the sand in front of Steve and took the other for himself.

The smell alone was enough to make his mouth water. "Where did you learn to cook like this?" he asked, unwrapping the leaves and breathing in a burst of delicious scent.

An uncomfortable silence followed. Steve lifted his head. Bruce and Bucky were looking at each other.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Bruce said. "Nothing wrong."

Steve pulled a chunk of meat free, scooping up mushrooms and roots, and ate it, closing his eyes to savour the taste. "Wherever you learned, it's delicious."

"It's nice to have someone around who appreciates it."

"Is that directed at me?" Bucky asked.

"I don't know," Bruce said. "Could I possibly be talking about the triton who turned his nose up even when I made him something out of _raw_ fish?"

"You wrapped it in seaweed, Bruce. Seaweed. It's got _weed_ in its name for a reason. Because it's a weed. No one should be eating it." 

"It's delicious."

"It's a weed."

Steve tried to hold back a laugh, inhaled a chunk of fish, and started coughing. Bucky sat up on his tail and rubbed his back.

"I'm fine," he said, clearing his throat a few times. Bruce handed him a waterskin. "Thanks." He drank a few swallows, coughed again, then set it down. "I don't think I've ever tried seaweed."

"And if you're smart, you never will," Bucky declared.

Bruce just sighed, shook his head, and pointedly went back to eating his fish. The rest of the meal passed in comfortable silence.

After the meal was done, Steve settled on the sand, Bucky helping him drape his right wing over a log, and Bruce cleaned up by tossing the leaves and bones into the sea where they were carried away by the tide.

He hovered after that, like he wasn't sure if he should stay or go. Bucky, after a brief moment of studying him, said, "Hey, Bruce?"

"Yes?"

"Do you feel like sharing a history?"

Bruce hummed, looking up into the sky where the sun was bright overhead. "I might." He looked down at Steve. "I could tell you the story of your people."

Surprised, he was blunter than he'd normally be. "What, that they're murderous, would-be conquering tyrants? I already know that."

"No." Bruce's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Not what they made themselves into. The story of how they became."

Steve knew the story: Icarus was saved by a god and gifted with wings. But Bruce was talking like there was more to it than that. "And you just happen to know it?"

Bruce and Bucky glanced at each other, and Bruce, after a moment, nodded.

"Bruce used to study at the Musaeum," Bucky said.

"At _Alexandria_?" The moment it left his mouth Steve wanted to smack himself with his wing.

"No," Bucky said, nudging him with an elbow, "the _other_ Musaeum."

Bruce snorted softly in amusement.

"He's a scholar." There was pride in Bucky's voice, pride and something a little darker, _here be dragons_ written on the map, warning him not to fly too close.

Steve took the warning. He didn't ask any questions. All he said was, "That's amazing," but he meant it. He doubted there was anyone in the lands who hadn't heard of the Musaeum. It was one of the only repositories of knowledge to survive the lands breaking, standing tall on its island above the ocean waves.

Only the best, the brightest, the smartest were permitted to study there.

Bruce tilted his head slightly, acknowledging Steve's words.

"He knows the histories," Bucky continued, "remembers everything he ever learned."

Steve couldn't help leaning forward, watching Bruce with a kind of awe. The City had a library, it collected what it could, but nothing could match the Musaeum at Alexandria.

A rumbling laugh made him realise he was staring. He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Bruce waved it away and lowered himself to the sand, settling himself comfortably. "I do know your people's story. Do you want to hear it?"

"I really do."

Bruce folded his hands over one knee, and when he spoke it was in a measured, rhythmic cadence, almost like a spoken song. "Long ago, before the lands were broken, Daedalus the inventor sought refuge with the Minoans, having outworn his welcome elsewhere. In return, he built a maze to protect their greatest secret. But when he learned the secret, the King imprisoned him, forbidding him to ever leave the island. Unwilling to remain where he'd sought refuge in the first place, Daedalus devised a plan to escape and took his son with him. No one knows if Icarus, his son, was willing or simply obedient to his father's wishes. But willing or not, he took up the wings of feathers and wax Daedalus built and when his father escaped Icarus went with him.

"Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sea, lest he soak his wings and drown, and not too fly too close to the sun, because the heat would melt his wings to nothing. Icarus didn't care about the sea, but he was dazzled by the sun, by its beauty and its majesty, and he rose high in the sky on his wings of feathers and wax. As the wax melted, still he strove to get closer to the sun and when he finally fell, the last tattered remnants of his false wings no longer able to hold him up, he did so in silence, and his eyes never left the sun."

"As he fell, Apollo, who'd watched Icarus flying closer with his wings of feathers and wax, reached out his hand and transformed him. True wings sprang fully formed from his back and he was gifted with the grace and strength to use them. Was Apollo impressed by Icarus' willingness to die with dignity? Was he pleased by a young man who recognised the majesty of the sun? Was he bored, or curious, and wanted to see what would happen? He was a god, so who can say. But on that day Icarians were born, and they became known throughout the lands for constantly striving to be more. For always reaching higher than anyone thought they could.

"It was only later, after the lands broke and Icaria survived untouched, that they decided they were the god's chosen people. That they were special, better and more important than everyone else, and they turned themselves into what they are today. But that's not what they used to be."

Silence fell when Bruce stopped speaking. He was an amazing storyteller, but that wasn't why it took Steve time to speak. There was a lump in his throat, and he didn't know what to do with it. "I've never heard that before," he said quietly. Bucky rested a hand on his arm, just a gentle touch but it helped. 

"I'm not surprised. I doubt anyone in Icaria would want it remembered, and no one outside of the Musaeum would have any reason to know it."

"We really used to be better?"

"According to the histories, yes. In the time before the lands broke, Icarians were always poking their wings into other people's business, but not to hurt them. They tended to be heroes." Bruce snorted, and his ears flicked. "Not always successful ones, but they tried."

* * *

As the sun fell that evening, Bucky helped Steve lie down on the makeshift bed in the circle of walled stone. When Steve was settled, lying on his stomach with his wings folded over his back, he started to move away, but Steve caught his arm.

And then didn't know what to say.

Bucky's blue-grey eyes were questioning, he was strong enough Steve could never hold him if he didn't let himself be held, but he didn't move, just waited. When Steve still didn't say anything, because there were so many things, all of them too hard, all of them too much, all of them too big, he gently lifted Steve's hand off his arm.

Steve's heart fell, but it was probably for the best. He closed his eyes and pretended he was going to sleep while he listened to Bucky move back towards the water. There was a tiny splash, then a shuffle, then—

His eyes snapped open as Bucky rested his head on the back of his thigh and settled an arm across his legs.

He tilted his head, lifting his wing out of the way so he could see, and Bucky smiled up at him. "Something like this what you had in mind?" The end of his tail was in the water; Steve could see the glow wavering in the ripples. When he didn't reply, Bucky looked uncertain. "I can move."

"No!"

Now Bucky was grinning, sharp teeth reflecting the light.

"No. I mean yes. That's good." He lay back down, felt warmth and safety and peace ripple through him like waves. "That's good, Bucky. Thanks."

"No problem, Steve."

He closed his eyes again, relaxing into the warm weight of Bucky, into the feel of him breathing. _I have to ask. _He'd be betraying everything swirling around inside of him if he didn't at least _ask_. "Have you ever thought of coming to The City?" 

Bucky's laughter shook him.

"That's a no?" he asked quietly when Bucky stopped.

"Yeah, Steve, that's a no. I'm a triton. You think The City would have me?"

"They took me."

"That's different."

"It's not."

"It is."

"It's not—" He opened his eyes. "Bucky, no, hear me out. It's not different. We already agreed. We both made choices. We're both different people. You're a triton, but you don't hurt people. You're a good man. The City, they don't care what you are. All they care about is who you are. It's a good place, filled with good people. You could have that if you wanted." _You could have me if you wanted. Please want that_.

Bucky was silent for a long time. Tense. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained. "I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to fight with you, but I don't want to talk about this."

Guilt rushed in. The last thing he wanted to do was pressure Bucky, and he'd been doing it just because he wanted, what, a chance with him? When he didn't even know if Bucky felt anything for him beyond responsibility and kindness. _Steve, you're an asshole. _"I'm sorry."

"I get it, it's been good to you." He paused. "And it's…nice you'd want something for me that you think is good. But—"

"But not talking about it." He unfolded his left wing and stretched it down to cover Bucky.

Bucky started to relax, running his fingers through Steve's feathers. Gently. Bucky was always so gentle when he touched his wings. Steve couldn't help the shiver that rolled through him. Bucky's hand went still. Steve could feel him watching, but he didn't say anything, and Bucky slowly resumed, touch soft and slow.

It was the last thing Steve remembered before he drifted off.


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky woke before dawn, knowing he'd promised to take Steve home today.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to keep him. They'd shifted in the night and he wanted to keep him here just like this. Steve had rolled onto his back and Bucky had moved higher, his head resting on Steve's stomach, his arms wrapped around Steve's waist. Only the glowing tip of his tail rested in the water.

Steve's left wing was folded over him. It was warm and soft and blocked out the world and Bucky didn't want to lose him. He knew it was impossible, he had to take Steve back to where he belonged and Steve…Steve wasn't someone who could ever belong with him, but he _wanted_.

He wanted this warmth and softness, Steve's wing around him, Steve's feathers against his skin. He wanted Steve's touch, needing him to stay close even if Steve wouldn't say the words. And why should he? Why would he? Bucky wasn't warmth and softness. He was everything but.

Still, he wanted.

He tipped his head back so he could see Steve's face. It wasn't the best angle, he could see right up his nose, but Steve was still beautiful and Bucky's heart wanted. His _heart_ wanted, and that was the problem.

He made a noise. He couldn’t help it. Steve's eyes opened slow and met Bucky's and the warmth in them dwarfed the rising sun.

He should move. He was too close, he should apologise and move and—

Steve's left hand settled in the space between his shoulder blades, light as a feather coming to rest, but his fingers curled, like they'd sink in and grab hold. His right hand brushed against Bucky's ribs. Helpless not to, Bucky closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Steve's sternum.

Steve stroked a line up his back and curled his fingers in the ends of his hair. Bucky breathed him in, nose muffled in his stomach. When he lifted his head, when he opened his eyes, Steve's warmth was still there, waiting for him, and he couldn't help himself.

He went to meet it.

Steve opened his wing as Bucky pulled himself up Steve's body, weight braced on the curve of his tail, settling with his hands on either side of his neck, being careful, so careful of his wings. They were stretched out on either side of him like an arch, and Steve raised his hand. Bucky waited for Steve to push him away. Expected it, was ready to throw himself back. Instead, Steve wrapped it around his shoulder, curving against his neck, thumb falling into the hollow of his throat.

His tail was a heavy weight, pressed against Steve's hip, the end draped over Steve's legs, and his fins curled when he felt Steve's bare foot press against the still-damp skin.

"Bucky." Even Steve's voice was soft, a little wondering. His eyes glowed with the rising sun as he trailed his fingers up, tracing the line of Bucky's neck, along his jaw and up into his hair, fingers gripping.

Bucky dipped his head, hesitated, and bared his teeth. A reminder. As if Steve could have forgotten with Bucky's bite still red on his arm.

Steve's smile was shining, silent laughter. "Be careful," he whispered.

It lodged under his ribs and an answering smile, answering laughter, wanted to bubble out of him, but at the same time he wanted to shake. He dropped to one elbow, freeing his hand, and pushed Steve's hair off his forehead. Steve watched him with warm, relaxed eyes as he smoothed his thumb across the line of his jaw, sliding his hand forward until he was cradling Steve's face, fingers sliding into the hollow behind his ear.

"Steve," he murmured, and Steve's eyes fluttered shut as he lowered his head—

The sound of beating wings whipped him around, drove him up on his tail, claws out, eyes flashing to pure black as he ducked the Icarian's long knife.

_Steve can't fly. _It beat in his head like the lash of a whip. _Steve can't fly. He can't get away. _

Bucky lunged for the Icarian, ducked the return slash, then he was surrounded by warm white and Steve's arms. Steve was in his ear, saying his name, saying, "Bucky, stop. It's safe. I promise it's safe."

There was a voice saying, "Steve, get away. Get back," and everything in him wanted to lunge forward and drive it away but Steve was wrapped around him, the world gone soft and white and… It hit him like a tidal crest. He trusted Steve. He trusted Steve with his life. And more importantly, he trusted Steve with _Steve's_.

He held himself still in the circle of Steve's arm, blind in the circle of Steve's wings, and fought every urge, born of both instinct and experience, that ordered him to break free.

Steve's forehead pressed against his hair, then he said, "Sam. I'm safe. Put your weapons away."

"I'm not putting anything down until you're away from that thing."

_That thing._ It wasn't unexpected. What was surprising was the twinge of hurt.

"His name," Steve snapped, "is Bucky. He's not a thing. He's the only reason I'm still alive."

There was a long and loaded silence, followed by the sound of blades being sheathed. Steve wasn't dropping his wings, and Bucky wouldn’t fight free of him, but he needed to see.

"Steve," he said quietly. "Let me go."

Slowly, reluctantly, Steve opened his wings but he didn't let go. Not exactly. He put a hand on Bucky's shoulder, used it to lever himself to his feet—and Bucky saw the way he winced, saw the pulled stitches, looking raw,_ knew _he'd just made his shoulder worse—and stood between him and the new arrival.

The Icarian who'd tried to skewer Bucky asked, "Are you okay?" His eyes flicked between them and his tone was careful.

"Mostly." Steve sounded as relieved as his smile. He was happy to see this Icarian. Darkness surged through Bucky. "I can't fly but give it a week and I'll be okay." He shook his head like it didn't matter and said, "Sam," something in his voice sharpening Sam's gaze, lifting his wings, "this is Bucky."

His hand returned to Bucky's shoulder as he turned, fingertips sliding across his skin like a caress, and Bucky's name in Steve's mouth felt as soft and warm as Steve's wings.

Sam spoke up. "Guess I should say sorry."

"It's fine," Bucky replied, eyes never leaving Steve. "I can see how you'd get the wrong idea."

Steve flushed, a beautiful, delicate shade of pink, and Bucky _wanted_.

Sam cleared his throat. "Riiight. Steve, you want to tell me what _happened_ to you?"

The pink faded. Steve's eyes flashed, anger, fear, blood-soaked memory, and squeezed shut.

"Icarians happened," Bucky said, because he could do this for Steve. "They attacked him, darted him with something to slow him down, so he couldn't fly, couldn't fight. They—"

He didn't get to finish. Sam was across the sand like a shot, reaching for Steve. Bucky pulled himself out of the way, even if he didn't want to.

"One of them knew who I was. He remembered me," Steve said while Sam moved his hands over Steve, checking for injuries. Steve spread his left wing, lifting it high, wincing as his right wing drooped. Bucky wondered if he'd made it worse this morning. "Sam. I'm fine. I'm okay. Bucky stopped them."

Steve disappeared as Sam pulled him into a hug, wrapping him completely in russet wings. "Well thank goodness for Bucky, then."

Bucky didn’t doubt the sentiment, but it had hidden claws. Sam met his eyes over Steve's shoulder, and they were rich with warning. This time it didn't hurt. He understood. His kind didn't save people; he was what they were saved from. Caution made sense.

Eventually, Steve stepped back and sat down on a log. Bucky pushed down the surge of warmth he felt when Steve stretched out his left wing until his feathers were brushing his tail. Sam eyed it but said nothing.

"How did you find me," Steve asked, looking up at Sam. "Why did you look for me?"

"Commander Hill had a bad feeling."

Steve stared at him, obviously confused. "I wasn't even overdue."

"Hey, if Commander Hill says she has a bad feeling, are you going to argue with her?" Sam said. "We came looking."

"We?" 

"Rhodey said he could find you."

Steve was staring again, or maybe still, so obviously baffled Bucky fought the urge to try and soothe away his confusion. "How?"

"I didn't ask. But he said go this way, we took one of the guard sloops, and here you are. They're out in the deep water, I've been scouting the shore. If you can't fly, I'll have to go get them to send the boat—"

"No." Steve cut him off and met Bucky's eyes. "No one else comes here."

The surge of gratitude was overwhelming. He didn't want people here. This cove was his safety, his sanctuary.

"And you can't tell anyone exactly where you found me."

"You can't keep this a secret."

"I can't keep what happened a secret, but no one needs to know exactly where." Steve's feathers brushed across his skin. "It's the best I can do," he said.

Bucky nodded. "Wait here." He hand-walked across the sand, slipping through the walls into his shelter, and retrieved Steve's messenger tube, its cut leather straps dangling. They were stained with blood. There were drifts of white feathers like tumbled clouds, gathered by the breeze at the base of the walls, and he couldn’t help running his fingers over them.

He'd been wrong. He'd been so wrong. Steve _was_ a danger to him; one Bucky was helpless against. He never should have let himself want, never should have let himself give in to something so impossible. Because it was impossible. It had been impossible since the first moment he'd closed his fingers around a slender wrist trailing in the water.

There was only one way to keep himself safe.

He picked up a downy feather and let the breeze lift it from his hands, watched it swirl up into the air, then returned to Steve.

"Here." He offered it to him. When Steve accepted it, he said, carefully neutral, "You should go."

"Bucky?" Steve crouched and held out a hand.

Bucky ignored it. The memory of this morning was burning in his gut. He couldn't deny how he felt, couldn't deny what his heart wanted, but the sooner Steve was gone the sooner he could start building a shell around it.

"Go back to The City, Steve. It's where you belong."

He could see Steve's confusion, and something that might be hurt, but he held on and eventually Steve's hand fell. He straightened. "If that's what you want."

He didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

Steve's voice was soft as he said, "Thank you, Bucky. For everything."

Silence drifted over them like downy feathers.

Sam broke it.

"If you can't fly, and I can't get the boat, I'll have to carry you."

It should have been funny. Steve wasn't that much shorter than Sam and it was incredibly awkward: Steve wrapping his left arm around Sam's neck, Sam's arms around Steve's waist as he scooped him up, Steve half lying over his shoulder, wings hanging down.

Bucky didn't laugh.

Sam grunted as he took off, wings kicking up gouts of sand, and Bucky didn't watch them go.

* * *

Steve didn't know why Bucky had gone distant. He'd wanted to ask, he'd wanted to drop to his knees in the sand and kiss him, he'd wanted to wrap his wings and arms around him and hang onto him until Bucky told him what was going on. But none of those were practical, almost all of them would hurt, and Bucky had been clear.

He'd wanted Steve to leave.

Was it because of Sam, someone else discovering Bucky's private cove? Or maybe this morning he'd just been reacting to Steve and now he was thinking better of it? Steve knew he hadn't been hiding it well, his attraction for Bucky, his affection for Bucky.

"Damn it," he muttered.

"We're almost there," Sam said, and Steve shut up. Let the beat of Sam's wings fill his ears as they thumped down onto the deck. It hurt, jarring his shoulder, but the pain was a welcome distraction.

Commander Rhodes was standing on the deck, looking pleased. "Steve."

Steve drew himself up straight, wings as tight as he could pull them with his shoulder throbbing. "Commander Rhodes. Sam said you found me?"

He nodded enigmatically. "Glad you're mostly in one piece. Where are you hurt?"

As Steve ran through his injuries, somehow forgetting to mention Bucky's bite, the crew of the sloop were pulling up anchor and getting it underway.

"Grab a seat. It won't take us long to get back to The City and we'll get you taken care of. Sam, you're in charge of him until we get there."

"Yes, Sir."

Sam guided Steve to a bench out of the way, where there'd be room for their wings, and they watched Commander Rhodes talk to the captain of the sloop.

"He came all this way just to find me?" He turned to Sam. "Did you ask him for a favour?" He knew they were close.

"No. I was in his office looking over potential recruits for the guard, Commander Hill came in, and then we were looking for you. I don't think it occurred to him not to. Have we ever lost a courier before?"

"Not that I know of."

"Maybe it's just what they do."

* * *

When they docked, Commander Hill was waiting. She said, "I was worried," as he stepped off the ramp, then gave his arm a careful squeeze.

He was too surprised to do more than say, "I'm okay," as she stepped back. There was a centaur waiting, one of Sam's friends from the guard, and he'd hitched himself to a cart.

"I can walk," Steve tried to say, and found himself getting black looks from Sam, Commander Hill, Commander Rhodes and the centaur. "Or not," he muttered.

"Or not," Sam said, handing him up into the cart after Hill, Rhodes climbing in after.

"Where are we going?" asked the centaur.

"The Tower, thanks, Stanga."

On the way, Steve gave a pared down version of what had happened. He somehow forgot to mention that Bucky was a triton. Sam gave him a sharp look, but he held his tongue. It wasn't that Steve wanted to hide it, precisely, but he found himself wanting to protect Bucky as much as he could.

When they got to the Tower, Commander Rhodes excused himself and Steve found himself bustled off to be poked, prodded, examined, pronounced in mostly good health and given a small jar of cream to rub on his stitches and the bite.

His evasiveness on the specifics of Bucky didn't survive the debrief that followed.

"You were rescued by a triton." Commander Hill's voice was flat.

"I was rescued by Bucky," he said, "and yes, he's a triton."

"If it was anyone but you, Steve, I'd call you a liar."

He bristled, defensive, protective. "He's a good man." He could feel his wings fluffing out. "I don't _care_ what else he is, he's a good man, he saved me, he looked after me, he—"

"Steve," she said firmly. "I believe you."

He relaxed. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask," she said, with a touch of humour.

"Why did you come looking for me? How did Commander Rhodes find me?"

"Technically, that's two somethings." The corner of her mouth lifted. "But I'll let you get away with it." She was silent for a moment. "The second, it's not a secret, exactly, but we don't spread it around." She held up her arm and touched the rune on her wrist. "In an emergency it tells us what direction to start looking for you. Like a compass that points towards your rune."

He stared uncertainly at the rune on his own wrist.

"It's not on all the time," she added. "Only Stark can activate it and it's for serious situations only, when someone's in trouble."

Still staring at the rune, he asked, "Why did you think you needed to activate it?"

The silence after he asked went on long enough that he looked up. She was watching him, her eyes gone dark and deep, like the depths of the ocean Bucky had dragged him through. A frisson of…not quite fear, but warning shivered across his skin. Then she blinked, and she was just Commander Hill again.

"I had a feeling," she said.

Commander Hill was one of the people he trusted most in the world. After a moment, he nodded, making the choice to accept it and not ask questions he was pretty sure she wouldn't answer anyway.

* * *

"Will you hold still?"

Steve hadn't enjoyed walking up the stairs to Sam's aerie. But trying to climb the flimsy rope ladder to his would have been a disaster, so Sam's it was.

He was sitting on a padded stool while Sam patiently rubbed cream into his stitches. It didn't sting, but it prickled, almost itched, and made him twitch. He wanted to scratch his shoulder against the wall like a cat.

Instead he held still.

"Thank you." He finished, wiped his hand on a cloth, then wrapped his fingers around Steve's shoulder. "Steve."

There was a world of words unspoken in the way Sam said his name, emotion barely held in check.

"Go ahead and ask." He'd heard the facts, but he knew Sam wanted the rest. He deserved the rest.

"How close was it?"

He bowed his head, wings curling. "Too close." Sam's wings swept forward, became walls on either side of him. "When I said Bucky saved me? I wasn't exaggerating. Whatever they hit me with, it made me next thing to helpless." He drew in a breath, let it out slow, and turned around on the stool so he was facing Sam. "The first one, I didn't recognise him, but he remembered me. He knew knew who I was, knew what I'd done. He and his buddy were going to cut off my wings and my head. Take them back to Icaria."

Sam's rumble of anger reminded him strangely of Bruce.

"It's not how I want to go back to the place, no."

"You are _never_ going back there," Sam snapped. "Don't even joke about it."

"Not a chance," he promised. "And Bucky didn’t just save me. They think I'm dead. He made them believe he was going to eat me." He swallowed hard at the memory. "I'm not gonna lie, Sam, I don't think I've ever been more scared in my life, but I trusted him and he didn't let me down."

"Is that why you were…" He trailed off and gestured at Steve's face.

He had to smirk a little. "Why I was what, Sam?"

"Don't make me say it. Not about a triton."

Steve laughed at Sam's disgruntled expression. "Maybe?" He rubbed his nose and glanced up at Sam.

"Something you want to tell me, Steve?"

"I've actually known Bucky for a while now," Steve admitted and told him. All of it. From the moment Bucky had grabbed his wrist to the moment he'd dragged him out of the sky and saved him. "And I _wanted_ him to kiss me," he added. "I'd like him to do a lot more than that. I asked him if he'd ever thought about coming to The City."

Sam tilted his head and nodded once. "And now I finally know where you got that fish."

"_And now you know where I got the fish_? I tell you I've been secretly meeting a triton for months and that's all you say?"

"Oh no, I've got plenty more to say, but it was a mystery and now it's not. And it's nice to have one simple thing to focus on in the middle of you being in love with a damn triton."

"I'm not in love with…" He trailed off in the face of Sam's stare and pinched the bridge of his nose.

_Who exactly are you trying to fool? What do you think this feeling is? Maybe it's not love, but if it's not it's the next thing to it. _

_If it's not, I want to see what it feels like when it is, cause I can't imagine anything better than this. If it's not I don't want it to be, because this already hurts. _

He'd put himself in Bucky's hands and he wasn't sure he knew how to take himself back. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Oh."

"There we go."

* * *

Bucky was lying on his back in the waves, staring up at the stars, when Bruce appeared, blocking the night sky. He stared down at him, tail idly swishing, and Bucky felt like an old book, open wide for Bruce to read all its secrets.

"Where's your Icarian?" he finally asked.

"He's not mine."

"He acted like he was yours."

Bucky huffed a tiny, pained laugh at that. "Are you making a fire?"

"Do you want one?"

He shrugged.

Soon enough, there was a crackling fire and Bruce sat next to Bucky with a muffled sigh. "He wasn't bad for an Icarian."

"Yeah," Bucky said, drawing the outline of a wing in the sand.

Bruce watched him, then reached out to correct the shape of the wing. "I thought you might go with him."

Bucky frowned at him. "And leave you here on your own?"

"I'd survive."

Bruce said it so casually, he didn't know how to respond. "It doesn't matter, anyway. You said it yourself. You can't trust The City."

"No." Bruce added feathers to the wing, long pinions stretching out from the curve. "I said _I_ can't trust The City."

Bucky frowned at him. "What's the difference?"

"The difference is that the risks worth taking and the risks that aren't are different for different people. For me, it's not a risk I'm willing to take, but I'm not you. It's," he let out a long sigh, "I don't know, Bucky. I don't have all the answers."

"Are scholars supposed to admit things like that?"

"They kicked me out before I achieved my Mastership, so…" He spread his hands and shrugged.

Bucky stared at him then started laughing, Bruce rumbling along with him.

As his laughter died away, Bruce fixed him with a look so serious, Bucky found himself sitting straighter, curling his tail into a tighter coil. "Bucky. My history's written, it's over and done." He glanced away. "It should have ended with me as one more relic at the bottom of the sea and it would have, if not for you."

A chill went down his spine, because it was the closest Bruce had ever come to admitting he'd jumped.

"And I'm grateful beyond measure that it didn't, but that shouldn't be the end of your story. You were my friend when I had no one. You were the closest I had to hope when I'd given up—"

"Bruce," he protested.

"It's true, but that was years ago. I'm better now. You're still my friend, you'll always be my friend, but you're not my anchor any more, however much that metaphor doesn't work considering you saved me from drowning. I'll be okay without you."

"I don't want to leave you alone."

"Bucky," Bruce said dryly. "If you visited a couple of times a month, we'd hardly see each other any less. The amount of time we've spent together lately because of your Icarian has been an aberration."

"Why are we even talking about this?" It came out a little desperate. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Aren't you?"

"No, I'm not. What you're getting at, it's impossible."

Bruce gave him a long look, filled with gentle sympathy, but all he said was, "I met your Icarian, and I doubt you've seen the last of him."

Hope bloomed and Bucky ruthlessly crushed it. "He's not mine."

Bruce snorted softly, then said, "Do you want to hear a history?"

"Yeah. Tell me…I don't know. Tell me a happy one."

"A happy one. Hmm, that could be a challenge. Let me think." Bruce tossed his head, his ears flapping, and there was a gleam in his eyes. "Alright, I've got one." He shifted into his storyteller's voice. "Not so long ago, in a time after the breaking, there was a triton who decided to be everything his people weren't. He was brave and good and rescued minotaurs from the depths of the sea."

"That's not a history!"

Bruce looked down his very long nose. "Excuse me," he said, voice dripping with mock-offense. "Which of us is the scholar?"

"Alright, fine." He stretched out, resting his head on his folded arms. "Tell me the stupid triton story."

"Bucky, it's far from stupid. But I'll warn you—it's not finished. It's still got a long way to go."

* * *

Steve had slept badly last night, kept waking up and reaching for someone who wasn't there. Kept stretching out his wings to fold over a muscled tail that was swimming in waters far away. So he didn't notice right away when someone came into Commander Hill's office.

She wasn't there. Steve was working through her backlog of paperwork, under orders not to do anything that would strain his shoulder, and he'd had to push to get that much; she'd wanted him to take time off completely. He _must_ have been drifting, chin propped on his hand as he stared at lists of numbers in her precise handwriting. It was the only explanation for not noticing the door opening. 

Steve's head jerked up when the man in the doorway cleared his throat.

"Wings," Stark said, and when Steve kept staring at him, added, "You always this chatty?"

"I don't usually have Founders appearing out of nowhere."

"I can see how that would be shocking." Stark held up a box then eased into the office far enough to set it on the desk and nudge it closer to him. "Take that, wear it when you do your flitting around the place thing."

Steve eyed it suspiciously.

Stark rolled his eyes. "Just open it, will you? I founded The City, I'm obviously not going to _hurt you_."

"Oh, obviously." But he picked up the box and opened it. Inside was a round medallion shaped like a shield, attached to a silver chain. He squinted up at Stark. "Jewellery?"

"Mmm, yes, because I've decided The City couriers aren't fancy enough. Pepper's arranging to have your wings beaded even as we speak. No, it's not _jewellery_ it's…look, no offence, but even if I tried to explain you wouldn’t understand. Put it on. If you get in trouble activate the shield. No one and nothing will be able to hurt you. "

Steve stared at him, then at the shield medallion in his hands. The only other time he'd met Stark he'd been an arrogant ass, and he was living up to that now, but Steve believed him. He drew in a deep breath and dropped the chain over his head, letting the shield settle in the middle of his chest. "How do I activate it?"

"Squeeze it. You're not special," he added quickly. "All the couriers are getting them. No one gets to hurt m— The City's people."

He pressed his fingers against it, gently. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, whatever." Stark looked shifty. "How are you at keeping secrets?"

Steve's eyes narrowed. "Depends on the secret and who I'm keeping it from."

Whatever Stark would have said in response was interrupted by a chiding, "Tony," and suddenly the office felt far too small, since it was trying to contain Steve, Stark, Prelate Potts and Potts' glowing smile. "Stop that."

Steve stood and gave an awkward bow. Prelate Potts kept The City running smoothly, made sure everyone had enough everything, helped the district leaders when they needed it and left them to carry on when they didn't, and somehow maintained a consistent peace between people so different they couldn’t even agree on what the best number of legs were.

And she was looking expectantly at him.

"Ma'am?"

"You didn't tell him," she said to Tony.

"I didn't get a chance," he protested. "He was all talky."

She made a face at him and turned to Steve. "You got hurt serving The City and we don't like it when that happens." Stark looked deeply uncomfortable. "So with your permission I'm going to…fix you."

Steve had absolutely no idea what to say. Behind Potts' shoulder, Stark was nodding and mouthing 'say okay'. "Okay?" Steve ventured, more despite Stark than because of him. 

"It won't hurt." She circled around behind him while Stark pulled the door shut. "But I will have to touch you."

He said, "Okay," again, and then she was wrapping her fingers around his right shoulder and warmth was spreading out from them, warmth that was as hot as the sun, eating into his bones and flowing under his skin and he couldn’t see—it didn't hurt, he wasn't afraid, but the world went white.

The next thing he knew, he was leaning on the desk. Potts was smiling gently at him, but her eyes were— He blinked. No, it must have been a trick of the light. He'd thought they were glowing, but he'd been wrong.

"Better?" she asked.

Experimentally, he stretched out his right wing. There was no stiffness, no pain. "How?"

"You wouldn't understand," Stark blustered, and pulled open the door, gesturing at Potts. She gave Steve a quick smile, then walked out. Before he followed her, Stark jabbed a finger at him. "Don't tell anyone and don't do it again."

"Thank you," he called after them, settling back onto the bench. He pulled his left wing around himself, then stretched it high to brush the ceiling, and decided whatever the Founders were, he didn't want to know.


	9. Chapter 9

The only problem with being fixed by Prelate Potts was that Steve still couldn't go back to Bucky, not until enough time had passed that he could realistically have started flying again if his shoulder had healed naturally.

It wasn't that he wanted to keep anything from Bucky. On the contrary, he found himself wanting to tell Bucky everything. To the point it would probably irritate him. But he understood he'd been given a gift of trust and it wasn't a trust he would break.

Even if he wanted to see Bucky so badly it made his pinions ache.

The light duties Hill had insisted on left him with plenty of free time. Just like there were plenty of unoccupied homes in both The City itself and outside its walls. Plenty that opened onto water for citizens of an aquatic persuasion. Even some that would be suitable for dual natured occupants, one aquatic, one not.

Steve wasn't so gone on Bucky he'd lost all sense. The non-aquatic occupant he was imagining was Bruce, not himself. Because regardless of whether Bucky returned his feelings or not, someday Bucky might consider coming to The City. If he did, Bruce might come with him, and they'd probably want to stay together.

There were half a dozen places that would suit them outside The City proper, under its protection but not inside its walls. If Steve maybe imagined showing them to Bucky…that wasn't his fault. It was Hill's fault for forcing him into light duties and Sam's fault for roping the guard into helping her enforce it.

As soon as he could, the earliest possible moment his shoulder would have been healed enough to fly, he went to find Bucky.

* * *

In the time that had passed since he'd told Steve to go back to The City, Bucky had convinced himself Steve wouldn’t come back. That Steve would get home and realise that the days he'd spent with Bucky were something to be put behind him and forgotten.

Sometimes Bucky could be as stupid as a tuna. 

From this deep under the waves, the winged figure was just a shadow over the water but Bucky knew it was Steve.

He'd recognise him anywhere, from any distance, in any weather. He knew the taste of his blood, the touch of his hand, the feel of his wings. He knew the sound of his voice and how his heart felt when Steve looked at him with bright, laughing eyes.

It was why he had to stay down here, where Steve couldn't find him.

This was the third day in a row Steve had quartered the ocean where Bucky made his home. Bucky admired his tenacity and his stubbornness. But then, he admired just about everything about Steve.

He wondered how many days would pass before Steve would stop looking. He wondered how many days it would take before he'd give up.

He wondered how long it would take before the longing would fade.

* * *

Steve had been looking for Bucky for four days. There was no way Bucky didn't know he was here. He was done flying back and forth over the water. He was staying right here, perched on the stone wall of Bucky's shelter, until Bucky showed up.

There was a storm rolling in, he could see it in the distance, but he didn't care.

An hour later the wind had whipped up, snapping through his hair, ruffling his feathers, and a shadow rising out of the water made him shade his eyes.

"Go home, Steve," it called.

He kicked up into the air, canting his wings against the wind, and shot out over the water, hovering above Bucky.

"Why? What did I do?"

"Why does everything have to be about you?"

"Just tell me why I have to go. Tell me. Give me one reason, one _good_ reason, why I have to leave and I'll do it. I'll go and I'll," his voice faltered, "I won't come back."

Bucky's eyes were black from edge to edge and black claws flashed under the water as he glared up at Steve. "Because it hurts. Everything I feel, I see you and I hear you and it gets bigger and louder and it can't happen, I know it can't, it's impossible and looking at you _hurts_."

Bucky's voice cracked on the last word and Steve's wings stilled. He plummeted, catching himself as the truth of what Bucky's words meant slammed into him …and then he deliberately folded his wings and let himself fall.

He dropped like a stone and plunged into the waves, wings instantly soaked, their weight dragging him down. They would have drowned him, but Bucky caught him by the waist, hauled him up before the sea could take him, glaring like Steve was the biggest idiot in the lands.

Steve laughed, wrapping his arms around Bucky, forcing his sodden wings, feathers trailing in the water, to follow suit. When he'd folded himself around Bucky, he freed a hand and touched his face as delicately as he knew how.

As softly and gently as he could, he said, "I love you, too," the truth of it seared into the heart of him. 

"You can't."

"I can. I do. Bucky. It's not impossible. It's not." And before Bucky could protest, he kissed him.

Bucky tasted of salt and the sea and Steve never wanted to stop. Bucky's hands flexed against his waist, then one slid up his back, between his wings, his tail was coiling around his legs, and Steve felt the prick of claws as Bucky curled a hand in his hair. He pulled back. Bucky's eyes were still black. Steve nudged him with his nose, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then Bucky was kissing him, deep, like he'd eat him alive, the press of sharp teeth against his tongue sending a thrill down his spine.

He was breathing hard when Bucky pulled back, and Steve watched his eyes slowly fade to blue-grey.

"Don't do that again," Bucky murmured, pressing his face into Steve's neck.

"Kiss you? Can't promise that, Bucky. I can promise the opposite, if you want."

There was a sharp nip, Bucky's teeth in his skin, that made him suck in a breath. "No, you idiot. Jump in the water."

"Oh, that." He shifted his wings. "We might be able to work something out."

Bucky kissed his neck. "Good."

"But you're stuck with me 'til my wings dry." Steve took a deep breath. "And however long you want me after that."

Bucky lifted his head. "What if I want you for a long time?" he asked softly, expression open and vulnerable.

Steve caught his face between his hands, thumbs brushing his skin. "However long you want," he repeated.

This kiss was soft, sweet, as gentle as Bucky touching his wings, and Bucky let out a shuddering breath. "Let's get you to land."

* * *

Bucky held tight to Steve, moving slowly through the water, not wanting to put too much pressure on his wings. Of course, he wouldn't have to worry about it if he hadn't _fallen into the water_.

He wasn't really upset. He couldn't be. His entire body was a sunrise, Steve the sun's warmth plastered against his chest, kissing his neck as Bucky swam backwards towards shore, _I love you, it's not impossible_, echoing through him_. _

Steve shivered as they reached the shallows and stood, wings dragging.

Bucky said, "Get your clothes off." Steve smirked at him. "Uh uh, no. You're freezing, or you will be in a minute. Get your clothes off, lay em out to dry, and wrap yourself in the blanket. I'm starting a fire and you are going to get warm and get your wings dry. I'm not losing to you to something stupid now that I've got you."

Steve's eyes went soft and he crouched, put a hand on Bucky's chest, fingers spread wide over his heart, making it race, and kissed him. "Okay."

"You're not going to argue with me?"

"Not this time." He kissed him again and Bucky leaned into it, snaking a hand around his waist, before letting him go.

He built the fire and before long Steve came out from behind the stone wall, blanket wrapped around his chest, wet clothes in one hand, wings held high. They'd stopped dripping. 

He saw Bucky looking and said, "I had a good shake, got the worst of the water off."

He hung his clothes over the log closest to the fire and planted himself in the curl of Bucky's tail, spreading his wet wings to cover it. Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve, smoothing his hand across Steve's bare skin, and Steve snuggled sideways into his chest, his head tucked under Bucky's chin. It was hard to remember how much smaller he was sometimes, when inside he was so huge.

"This is new." He ran his finger down the silver chain hanging around Steve's neck and rested it against the round pendant.

"Stark," Steve said, sounding a little exasperated.

"It's a stark?"

"No, Stark gave it to me. It's supposed to protect me if something like what happened happens again."

"_Stark_. Stark who founded The City Stark."

"Yeah."

"He gave you that."

"Not just me. He was giving one to all the couriers. He doesn't want us getting hurt."

"Never thought I'd have something in common with someone like that." Bucky kissed the top of Steve's head. "If that storm hits, we'll have to move."

"It's not going to."

"You sound sure about that."

"The wind's changed."

Bucky licked a finger and lifted it into the air. "Huh."

"I fly, I always know when the winds shift."

"Makes sense." He rubbed his hands up and down Steve's arms, wanting to ask, not wanting to ask. Wanting to just _be_, him and Steve, but wanting to know how Steve could believe this was anything but impossible.

Maybe Steve could read his mind. Maybe Steve was thinking the same thing. He tilted his head to kiss Bucky on the chin, then threaded their fingers together. "We're not impossible."

He pressed his face against Steve's hair.

"Or if we are, we were impossible before we ever met. We've already gotten it out of the way."

"Run that by me again?" But his fear was fading. With Steve in his arms, with the feel of Steve's kiss still burning against his mouth, with _I love you, too_ ringing in his ears it was hard to do anything but believe.

"You're a triton who gave up being what everyone knows a triton is, I'm an Icarian who left behind everything an Icarian's supposed to be, and it was the same thing that pushed us there. You're more impossible," _impossible_ was a caress that shivered up Bucky's spine, "than me, but we can be impossible together."

He kissed the top of Steve's head. "That makes no sense."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Steve said, "but I'll come to you. As often as I can. Stay with you as often as I can. I can't leave The City—"

"I'd never ask that. I'd keep you if I could, but you'd never abandon your duties."

"No."

"No. If you could, you wouldn't be you." He took a deep breath. Hating himself, but he had to. "You really want to try?"

"Bucky." It was almost angry and Steve twisted in his arms, half pushing him down to the sand, so he was sprawled over his chest, wet wings cold against his skin. "Don't you?"

"Yes." He slid his hand between Steve's wings and trailed his fingers down Steve's spine, felt Steve arch into his touch as his eyes slipped shut. "Yes." He tipped Steve's chin up and kissed him, long and slow and soft. "And I can come to you."

"I can't ask you do that."

"You didn't ask. I offered. And I'm faster anyway." Steve grumbled and he pulled him closer. "I'm not volunteering to sign up for one of these," he brushed his fingers over the silvery rune on Steve's wrist, "but to see you? I can visit. As long as you warn them I'm coming. I don't want to get skewered."

"You'd be safe. I promise, Bucky. You'd be safe." Steve caught his face in both hands, eyes serious. "I'd never do anything to put you in danger."

He had to kiss him again, one hand curling into damp feathers as the other pulled him closer. Steve's wings folded around him, chilly against his skin, and he shivered. Shivered again as Steve pressed into the kiss, deepening it, either not caring about his teeth or trusting Bucky to be careful with them. He nipped gently, just for fun, and felt Steve's hands curl against his skin.

Then an amused voice said, "I saw the fire and wondered if there was a problem."

Steve jumped, the fire hissing as water flicked off his wings. "Cat paws," he muttered, and Bruce chuckled.

"Still hooves," he said. "But there seems to be the opposite of a problem."

Bucky couldn't help himself. He grinned at Bruce as he hugged Steve tightly enough he said, "Ack!"

Bruce smiled back, dipping his head, and his eyes were warm. "Maybe you shouldn't squeeze him to death?"

"I don't mind," Steve said, readjusting the blanket.

Bruce glanced between them before his eyes settled on Bucky. "Does this mean you'll be going to The City?"

"No," Bucky replied. 

"No," Steve said at the same time.

"Ah."

"But if you ever wanted to," Steve added, sounding hesitant, something Bucky wasn't used to hearing from him, "there's places, not part of The City but close enough to be under its protection, places that would suit both of you."

Bucky curled his tail around him more tightly, overwhelmed by a tidal pull of warmth at Steve including Bruce in his plans when Bruce was someone he barely knew.

Bruce stared at Steve for long enough Steve started to shift uncomfortably before saying, "That's both unexpected and very kind, but I don't think so." He looked between them again, then walked into the stone-walled shelter. He came out with one of Steve's feathers and held it out to Bucky.

Bucky stared at it questioningly. "Why are you giving me a feather? Why are you giving me one of _Steve's_ feathers?"

"Take it."

He did as he was told, Steve watching curiously.

"Soft, isn't it? And strong?"

Suddenly, Bucky understood. He ran his fingers up the middle of it. "Yeah, it is."

"It's real."

Bruce was smiling down at him, and he had to smile back, remembering a handful of sand. "Then I guess I have to believe in it."

* * *

Three months later, with Bruce's support, Bucky relocated to a secluded inlet not far from The City's walls. It had a structure that stretched out over the water, with a ramp to a platform that could hold a mattress and bedding and keep anyone lying on it dry.

Anyone, of course, being Steve. Steve, who loved him. Steve, who he loved. Steve who'd said _It's not impossible_ and been right. Spending night after night wrapped in warm wings made him forgive Steve's occasional smugness on that front.

When Sam approached him—not to threaten him in some way relating to Steve, as he'd first assumed—to ask if he'd consider becoming a watcher, the surge of excitement at the idea of having a _purpose_ was overwhelming. 

Watchers patrolled and reported danger. They helped if someone needed it. They guided people in who came seeking refuge in The City. There were very few watchers for The City's waters, and it was something Bucky was uniquely suited to.

He doubted he'd ever become a citizen, but the more time he spent with the people of The City, the more he believed they were what Steve had said: good people who cared about who you were, not what you were.

They were people he could be proud to help protect.

And when they raced through the wind and the waves on their way to visit Bruce, Steve's wings glowing with the light of the sun as he dipped down to trail his fingers in the water, Bucky always let him win. 


	10. Epilogue: four months later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't really think I'd forget about Bruce, did you?

Bruce stepped out of his cabin and breathed deep, the scents of the forest filling his nostrils. It was one advantage of what he'd become. When he stood here, in the patch of forest he'd made his own, nothing could hide from him.

He shook himself, ears rattling, and scratched his horns, then glanced up through the branches at the sky, working out where he could find the best light.

It had been a good day today. He'd spent the morning working in his garden. In the afternoon, Steve had arrived, walking with him down to the cove to meet Bucky, who'd been grinning up at him from next to a bulging sack. They always brought it with them when they came to visit, filled with things they thought he might find useful.

From the uncertain way Steve had watched him, wrapping a nervous wing around Bucky, Bruce had guessed this time they'd brought something unusual. 

When he'd unfolded a bundle of rough cloth, revealing oversized quill pens, far too large for a human hand but just right for his, he'd understood Steve's nervousness. The feathers were too big to have come from any bird.

Steve had fidgeted and said, "Nowhere had pens big enough for you. Not even close. We had to get them made and the only feathers big enough were…" He'd trailed off, but his wings had flicked forward, pinions unfolding—pinions identical to the quills Bruce was holding in his hand.

"And the books would have been useless without pens to write in them." Bucky had nodded at the sack and Bruce pulled out a stack of blank-paged leather-bound books. "I thought," he'd added softly, "you might want to start writing down some of the things you know."

He hadn't touched pen and ink since he'd been exiled, since he'd been cast out because the Masters had refused to believe he was still who he'd always been. It had been like a holding a memory of a different time.

Bucky had looked concerned at his silence, Steve downright worried, so Bruce had shaken the memories away, smiling as he held up a pen. "Thank you," he'd said, having no way to put into words what the gift, and Steve's willingness to sacrifice his own feathers, meant to him. 

Steve had beamed back. "You're welcome."

"But that's the only body part you're getting your hands on," Bucky had added, sly and teasing. "The rest are mine."

Steve had groaned and smacked him with a wing while Bucky ducked away, grinning, and Bruce had laughed, deep and heartfelt.

They did that, the two of them; they made him laugh. It made him happy to see them together, to see how at peace with himself Bucky had become. When Bucky had saved him, when he'd let Bruce stay with him, he'd let Bruce find a measure of peace. It settled something in him to know Bucky had finally found more than a mere measure. With Steve, he'd found an ocean and a sky's worth. 

When they'd gone, leaving him with pens and ink and books and promises to return in a couple of weeks, Bruce had returned to his patch of forest and carefully put everything safely away. Now he was standing outside his cabin, holding a pen made from a white feather almost as long as his forearm, a bottle of ink, and an empty book, studying the light.

He chose a spot under a tree whose branches split, opening a path for the sun. When he opened the journal, pen at the ready, he hesitated. He wanted to write out histories and scribble alchemical formulas and diagram the movement of the stars. There was too much. Where did he start?

A branch cracked and he lifted his head sharply. Breathed in.

He was on his hooves, the journal and ink carefully set aside, the pen in his hands like a weapon, by the time the man stepped into the clearing he called his own.

Bruce lowered his head and let out a loud, threatening snort, tail lashing.

"Woah, hey, no charging." The man, who was rather short and had facial hair like a badger curled on his chin, held up his hands. There was a slowly fading glow around his torso that made the air shimmer. "No charging. I come in peace. I just want to talk to you. I think I want to talk to you. Maybe?"

"If you come looking for a minotaur you should know what you want from him."

"That's a fair point. But I didn't know I was looking for a minotaur. I still don't know if I'm looking for a minotaur. You might not be who I'm looking for." His eyes narrowed as he pointed to the pen. "That makes me think I am, though. You got that from Wings, right? It looks like one of his and it's just the kind of thing he'd do."

Bruce's eyes narrowed and he scraped a hoof across the grass. "What do you want."

"I want to find the being, whatever, whoever, they are, that knows histories from the Musaeum. If that's you, I'm looking for you. If it's not you, maybe you could point me in their direction?" He waved his hand around vaguely. "It's a big forest and they could be anywhere." 

Bruce stared at him, and not in a friendly way, while his blood chilled. Bucky would never give his existence away. Would Steve? Bruce had never asked him not to.

No. The answer came easily, but it wasn't trust. Logically, he couldn’t have or whoever this was would have known what he was looking for.

Whoever he was, he was apparently allergic to silence.

"See, Wings showed up at the library with what he claimed was the true history of Icarus. Said it was the one from the Musaeum at Alexandria. Anyone else, I would have called bullshit. Uh, no offence."

Bruce snorted, amused despite himself. "None taken."

"Right. Anyway, it was Wings, and you just kind of have to believe him. You know? It's annoying, but there you go. So if he shows up and says hey, this is the actual history they've got at Alexandria, you believe him and you add it to the library. But you wonder where he got it." Whoever he was rolled his eyes. "Of course he refuses to say, just clams up and stares at me like I asked him to drown a kitten."

Bruce's heart did something complicated, knowing Steve had protected him.

"But, see, he and that triton of his keep coming out here, and I figured they have to be doing it for a reason, so I put two and two together and came up with you. Possibly you. Is it you?"

There was so much excited hope in those last three words, Bruce found himself asking, "Who are you?"

He gaped. "Who am I… Who am _I_?"

Bruce nodded and folded his arms, careful of long length of fragile pen in his hand.

"Who am I. Okay, that's not a question I ever expected to be asked." He seemed weirdly pleased, grinning as he said, "Tony Stark at your service. Not literally at your service, you understand, but it's a thing people say."

Bruce…blinked. "Tony Stark."

He nodded, still grinning.

"We studied your weapons at the Musaeum."

His grin slowly faded. "I bet you did. Couldn't figure out how to make them, could you?"

He'd understood the shape of them, had the feeling if he'd pressed a little harder the truth of them would have become clear, but the lands were better without Stark's weapons. "No."

"Good."

"I agree."

Stark gave a sharp nod. "I don't do that anymore."

"No, instead you founded an entire city."

"Not just me."

"You're the one people talk about."

"I learned a long time ago you can't control what people say about you." He waved a dismissive hand. "But look, since you are who I'm looking for, maybe you can help me. See, I've been trying to get the Masters—and seriously, Masters? They can't come up with something a little less… A little less?—at Alexandria to agree to a trade, or a deal, or anything, to get a copy of at least some of what they have into our library but they won't even sit down to talk about it. I figured it was because they have a stick up their asses about The City, but if they let you study there..."

He trailed off in the face of Bruce's level stare and winced. "Again, no offence."

He said nothing, but the old anger was rising, because they _hadn't_, they'd exiled him, and this Stark, who'd founded an entire _city_ to feed his ego after he'd give up the fame weapons had brought, was stomping all over things he could never understand.

"Moving on. Alexandria's it, they're everything, and just because they survived the breaking doesn’t mean they're going to survive whatever comes next. All it would take is a flood, a fire, an earthquake and," he snapped his fingers, "it's all gone, just like that. There needs to be copies everywhere, but until we figure out how to fit an entire library in your pocket, I'll settle for one. In The City. Where I can keep it safe. And if they let someone who's not one hundred percent ordinary human study there, if they let a minotaur study there, then their problem can't be with what The City is. it's got to be something else. I've just got to figure it out."

The quill crumpled in his hand. His shoulders curled as he lowered his head and crossed the grass between them, hooves digging deep into the grass. "They didn't." It rumbled out low, dangerous, and his ears were flat to his head.

Stark didn't move. Bruce didn't know if he was stupid or arrogant or oblivious to how easily Bruce could kill him, but he didn't move. All he did was tilt his head so he could look him in the eye. "They didn't what?"

"They _didn't_ let a minotaur study there. You think they'd take someone like _this_," he raised his arms, "as an apprentice? No." He spat the word. "I looked just like you. Seven years I studied there. For seven years it was my home. It was everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of." The words were tumbling out fast, fuelled not just by anger but by the need to make sure Stark understood who he was trying to make deals with. "When I changed, my own Master refused to speak for me. I'd been his apprentice for _seven years_, he knew me, he knew my mind, he knew everything I could do. I showed him I was still me, that I could still do everything I could before, and he turned his back on me."

He touched the metal caps that covered his sawn-off horns. "I thought if I showed them I didn't want to be dangerous they'd let me stay, so I cut off my own horns." He had to swallow hard, eyes on the grass. "They didn't care. They banished me. If I hadn't found a ship willing to take me, I think they would have had me killed. So no, don't ever think they let a minotaur study there. Not for one minute. Not for one second."

He was breathing hard, but his anger had drained away, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

The touch on his arm shocked them open.

There was compassion on Stark's face, sympathy in his voice, a light like fury in the back of his eyes. "I'm sorry..." He stopped. "What's your name?"

He debated not telling him, then decided after everything he'd just blurted out it would be pointless. "Bruce."

"Bruce. That's…" He shook his head. "No, If I tried to pretend I understood, it'd be a lie, but I damn sure know it shouldn't have happened." For the first time his words weren't tumbling over themselves like they were trying to win a race. "No one should have done that to you. No one should have made you feel like you had to, to cut off a piece of yourself."

The words, the touch on his arm, utterly fearless, blew through him like a peaceful breeze. He nodded.

Stark nodded back, and when he pulled his hand away, it was slow, like he was making a point.

Bruce wasn't even slightly surprised when Stark grimaced, almost apologetically, and said, "Can I ask though—"

"Some of us change," he said before Stark finished the question. "It's been this way since before the breaking." He tossed his head. "It means we come from one of the bloodlines that were touched by the gods."

"Fucking gods." He said it the way someone would complain about deer getting into the garden, about vermin getting into the food. "It always comes back to the fucking gods. I don't know whether they left because of the breaking or the breaking happened because they left, but we're better off without them." 

Bruce stared at him.

"What?"

"You think the breaking happened _because_ the gods left?"

"I don't know. How do you test something like that? Everyone assumes it's the other way around, but either way fits what we know about them."

He thought about it, measuring it against the histories, then nodded. "You're right."

"I usually am." He took a deep breath. "Bruce. Come to The City."

"No."

"No? Just like that, no?"

"Do I need more than that?"

Stark looked flummoxed. A tickle of humour made Bruce flick his ears. He wondered how often people said no to him.

"No," Stark finally said. "No, I guess not? But imagine how much nicer it would be living there." It was wheedling. "And there's the library. You could add everything you know to it."

The amusement disappeared like it had fallen into a well. "I see. You want the bits of the Musaeum I have in my head. You'll tolerate a minotaur in your city for long enough to drain everything he knows and then I get to enjoy a repeat of what happened three years ago." He stepped back, reclaiming the distance between them. "No thanks."

Stark didn't reply, and even their short acquaintance had been enough to learn silence from him was unusual. It was enough to make Bruce fidget. Eventually Stark gazed up at the sky, which was starting to show the first streaks of approaching dusk. "Do you know why it's called The City?"

"No."

"Because it's simple. It describes exactly what it is. It's a city. And a city is a place where people can find safety and home and protection, a place they can live and work, find friendship and raise a family. The City. Anything else would have brought something else to the table." He glanced at Bruce. "I did suggest Starkia, but it got shot down."

"I'm not surprised."

Stark gave him a half-smile and went back to staring at the sky. "Do you know why we founded The City?"

"Ego?"

Stark laughed. "You're not the first to guess that, but if I'd been going for ego I would have fought harder for Starkia."

"Then why?" he asked, intrigued despite himself.

"Because the gods were assholes of the highest order and they fucked around in people's lives. Maybe they couldn’t have stopped the breaking, maybe they were the ones who caused it in the first place. Whatever the truth, they left. Wherever they are now, they left us alone to clean up the mess. So in our own small way that's what we're doing."

"You're trying to clean up the mess the gods left behind? Are you _sure_ you didn't found The City from pure ego? Because that sounds pretty egotistical to me."

Stark's slow smile was strange. "Except there's facts you're not factoring in. When I said the gods fucked around in people's lives? I meant it literally. There's a bunch of us who are the result of that. We can do things other people can't and we're going to live a long time. I could have kept making weapons, and what a great little legacy of the gods that would have made me. Walking right in great great grandaddy's footsteps. Or I could so something good. We, me and the other Founders, could do something good. So we did."

"You're saying you're…"

"Yeah."

"Divine blood."

Stark shrugged.

"All of you."

"If you mean the Founders? Yes. If you mean everyone in The City? No. But anyone who comes in peace is welcome in The City. Anyone. That includes minotaurs. I don't want you to come to The City because I want to use you, Bruce. I want you to come to The City because that's what it's for." He scratched his throat as he looked away. "And…"

"And?" he asked suspiciously.

"It'd be nice to have someone around who was smart enough to understand what I'm talking about. At least some of the time."

The laughter took him completely by surprise, tumbling out of him, and he snorted out, "Ego!" pointing at Stark.

"Truth," he retorted, which only made him laugh harder.

When he'd caught his breath, he studied the man in front of him who bore his scrutiny in silence for about thirty seconds before it got too much for him.

"There _might_ be another thing. If you wanted it. Maybe."

"What's that?"

"Pepper. She's one of the Founders, she has the gift for people. For bodies." Stark's jaw moved like he was biting down on something unpleasant, then he nodded. "She might be able to change you back to what you were before this."

The possibility rose up in front of him for one glorious moment, then he tossed his head. "No. This is me. This is who I am. If that's not good enough for someone then they're not good enough for me."

Stark looked ridiculously pleased. He held out his hand. "Bruce. Come and see my city. I promise you won't regret it."

Bruce looked down at the crumpled quill in his hand. The shaft was still straight, strong and unbroken, and it gleamed in the fading sun.

He lifted his head. "_Your_ city?"

"The City, whatever, you know what I mean."

With a small snort of amusement, ignoring the pounding of his heart, Bruce took his hand.


End file.
